tJERTRAND 

J40  Pacific  Ave- 
LONG  BEACH, 
CALIFORNIA 


ON    CLOUD    MOUNTAIN 


IRovel 


HY 


FREDERICK  THICKSTUN  CLARK 

AUTHOR  OF 

'A  MEXICAN  GIRL"  "IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
1894 


Copyright,  1894,  by  HARPKR  &  BKOTIIERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


ON   CLOUD  MOUNTAIN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  brakeman  appeared  long  enough  to  emit  that 
series  of  consonantal  explosives  which  travellers  have 
learned  to  regard  as  the  name  of  the  next  station. 
Then  a  whirl  of  dusty  wind  bore  him  out  of  sight  on 
the  rear  platform  of  the  forenoon  train.  The  name,  as 
the  passengers  understood  it,  was  as  impossible  as  a 
Sanskrit  sentence  without  a  knowledge  of  inferential 
vowels ;  and  those  who  had  been  brought  up  on  a  sim- 
pler system  of  phonetics  craned  their  necks  for  assist- 
ance in  the  sign-board  on  the  depot : 


'DONHALACITY' 


People  who  had  never  before  heard  of  the  place 
classified  it  at  once  as  one  of  those  innumerable  points 
in  Colorado  where  civilization  is  trying  to  get  a  foot- 
hold. A  few  philosophers  in  the  sleeping-car  went  so 
far  as  to  wonder  whether  civilization  were  not  getting 
the  worst  of  it.  In  the  day -coach,  among  those  un- 
fortunates who  recognized  the  town  as  a  terminus,  there 


2061716 


was  a  pushing  of  bundles  into  readiness  for  removal,  a 
readjustment  of  limp  figures,  a  peering  about  of  anx- 
ious eyes.  The  brakes  ground  stridently,  the  couplings 
clanked,  there  was  a  final  exhalent  wail  from  the  air 
fixtures,  then  a  halt. 

The  passengers  descended  one  by  one.  A  policeman 
loomed  sublimely  on  the  depot  platform,  his  face  rigid 
in  the  expression  of  justice  encouraging  the  peaceable 
and  quieting  the  disaffected. 

First  came  a  modish  sportsman,  thin  and  tall  as  a 
totem -pole  —  as  grotesque,  too,  in  these  surroundings 
— but  absorbing  experiences  which,  on  his  return  to 
the  East,  would  stamp  him  as  a  "devil  of  a  fellow." 
He  was  followed  by  a  hulking  ranchman,  who  slouched 
away  as  if  wading  in  high  rubber  boots.  There  was  a 
commercial  traveller,  of  course,  with  a  sample  -  case,  an 
oleaginous  smile,  and  a  look  of  salaried  prosperity. 
Close  on  his  heels  pushed  and  crowded  a  troop  of 
giggling  waitresses,  brought  up  from  Denver  by  the 
proprietor  of  the  Donhala  City  Palace  Hotel,  and  al- 
ready eying  the  loafers  with  tentative  friendliness.  Then 
came  half  a  dozen  cowboys — one  of  whom  was  drunk,  and 
had  been  blood-thirsty  earlier  in  the  journey.  A  soaked 
apathy  had  finally  settled  down  upon  him,  and  he  was 
borne  unresistingly  away  by  his  companions,  only  mut- 
tering maudlin  complaints  at  their  keeping  him  from 
"  laying  down." 

The  policeman  watched,  ready  to  interfere  if  the  good 
of  the  public  demanded  it.  Your  frontier  policeman's 
existence  is  positive — he  makes  himself  felt  in  the  cause 
of  order,  even  to  superfluity.  He  loves  to  be  pointed 
out  as  the  brave  fellow  who  "  raided  Bowie's  place,"  or 


"  rain  "  that  mysterious  identity,  The  Red  Terror,  out  of 
town.  But  more  than  all,  it  is  his  pride  to  tower  above 
a  crowd  of  common  mortals  and  direct  them  by  the  si- 
lence of  decorated  authority.  The  desire  to  interfere  is 
restless,  assertive ;  the  disposition  to  pose  is  steady  and 
supporting.  The  two  traits  are  to  his  soul  what  his 
physiology  and  anatomy  are  to  his  body. 

The  natives  who  had  assembled  to  see  the  train  come 
in  bore  the  stamp  of  experiment,  of  doubtful  conclusions. 
Every  man  of  them  was  still  in  the  making ;  he  might 
turn  out  a  cattle  -  thief  or  a  millionaire.  One  thing  was 
certain,  however — none  of  them  had  ever  come  in  con- 
tact with  the  clean  side  of  life.  Moral  filth  was  as  un- 
mistakable all  over  them  as  physical  dirt  on  a  wet  dog 
after  rolling  in  the  street.  Such  aspirations  as  their 
faces  expressed  were  of  the  crude,  material  sort  which 
one  cannot  run  up  against  without  a  shock.  Their  sur» 
roundings  had  taught  them  a  new  formula  of  faith — the 
credo  of  dirt  and  physical  health :  "  I  believe  that  I 
came  from  the  dirt,  I  believe  that  I  am  dirt,  I  believe 
that  it  all  ends  in  six  feet  of  dirt."  This  world  hardly 
fits  such  people  for  heaven,  but  it  makes  use  of  them  as 
pioneers  to  smooth  the  way  for  a  generation  who  will 
have  a  better  chance. 

A  series  of  howls  went  up  at  sight  of  the  dude  : 
"  Throw  a  timber  at  it,  V  see  if  it's  alive !" 
"  Lend  us  the  toe  o'  yer  shoe  fer  a  toothpick !" 
"  Hang  a  rock  on  yer  gun  or  it'll  blow  away  !" 
The  dude  hurried  on.     He  had  discovered  the  solemn 
humor  of  the  Colorado  joke,  but  had  never  gone  so  far 
,as  to  comprehend  his  own  connection  therewith. 

The  last  to  descend  from  the  dayrcoach  was  a  woman. 


She  looked  nervous  and  fluttered.  There  was  the  appeal 
of  helpless  doubt  in  her  troubled  blue  eyes  as  she  glanced 
about,  after  taking  the  final  step  from  the  car  to  the  plat- 
form. There  she  stopped  with  a  frightened  abruptness, 
dropping  her  small  bundle.  It  fell  at  the  feet  of  one  of 
the  urchins  who  had  hailed  the  dude.  He  bent  to  pick 
it  up,  but  the  woman,  mistaking  his  intentions,  made  a 
dash  at  him. 

"  I  wa'n't  a-goin'  to  snipe  it,"  said  the  boy,  in  resent- 
ful protest. 

She  seized  the  bundle  herself,  and  stood  holding  it  by 
its  strong  hempen  string. 

"Well,  you  let  my  things  be,"  she  muttered,  gazing 
about  her  uneasily. 

One  might  have  affirmed  with  assurance  that  she  had 
never  travelled  much,  but  there  was  something  more 
than  the  vehement  watchfulness  of  inexperience  in  the 
gaze  with  which  she  confronted  the  boy — a  hysterical 
reticence,  a  strained  attempt  to  look  unconcerned.  She 
appeared  hunted,  guilty ;  yet  with  the  light  of  inward 
peace  in  her  blue  eyes,  one  would  have  called  her  gentle, 
womanly,  and  good. 

"Mebbe  ye'd  better  try  slappin'  'im,"  suggested  a 
larger  boy,  edging  towards  her  threateningly.  "  I'm  'is 
brother !" 

The  woman  turned  pale. 

"  I  never  thort  o'  sech  a  thing !"  she  cried,  drawing 
back. 

"Well,"  said  the  big  brother,  mollified  by  the  im- 
pression he  had  made. 

"  Move  on,  Jim !"  cried  the  policeman. 

The  big  brother  receded  into  the  background.     He 


had  interpreted  his  role  admirably,  and  the  loafers, 
whose  taste  for  the  drama  had  been  whetted  by  long 
abstinence,  looked  balked  and  disappointed  at  his  early 
exit. 

As  the  woman  faced  the  policeman — her  attention 
had  heretofore  been  taken  up  by  the  importunities  of 
the  two  boys — her  look  of  dread  changed  in  an  instant 
to  one  of  cringing  terror.  There  was  no  mistaking  it. 
That  emotion  became  visible  in  every  pallid  feature, 
every  drawn  and  quivering  line.  Terror  did  not  stop 
with  her  eyes ;  it  took  possession  of  her  whole  body,  and 
made  her  for  the  moment  an  incarnation  of  repressed 
fear. 

"  That  gal's  a-goin'  to  keel  over,"  said  a  man  in  the 
crowd,  chancing  to  observe  her  nearly.  And  indeed  the 
woman's  fright  seemed  about  to  culminate  in  some  sort 
of  paroxysm.  She  put  out  her  hands  grapplingly,  like 
a  sick  man  opposing  an  enemy  in  delirium.  Some  one 
reached  forward  to  support  her.  She  wavered  a  mo- 
ment. That  blank  horror,  faintness,  seemed  about  to 
ingulf  her.  Then  with  an  effort  she  stiffened  her  slight 
figure.  She  stood  erect. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  which  she  tried  in  vain  to 
keep  steady,  "  I — I  ain't  a-goin'  to  keel  over.  I'm  only 
tired — V  it's  so  stiflin'  hot !" 

The  line  of  peering  eyes  closed  in  about  her.  She 
shrank  back  as  from  a  narrowing  circle  of  fire.  The  men 
turned  the  tobacco  in  their  mouths  with  some  excite- 
ment, detecting  the  possibility  of  a  strong  passage  in 
the  drama,  even  after  Jim's  exit.  The  policeman  stood 
examining  her  with  hard  scrutiny,  but  made  no  attempt 
to  speak  to  or  detain  her. 


"  I  reckon  they's  suthia'  in  the  bundle  wot  don't 
b'long  to  'er,"  suggested  an  officious  bystander.  "  She 
hangs  on  to  it  like  it  was  the  life  o'  'er !" 

The  woman  trembled  still  more. 

"  It's  clo'es — nothin'  but  clo'es,"  she  said,  trying  hard- 
er than  ever  to  steady  her  voice  and  control  her  quiver- 
ing muscles.  She  still  avoided  the  policeman's  eye,  as 
if  he  were  the  embodiment  of  her  worst  fears. 
.  "  I  bet  it's  Pompadour  Sal,  wot  the  Denver  perlice  's 
arter,"  suggested  a  tall  man,  with  a  thatch  of  slate-col- 
ored hair.  "  I  heerd  she  was  down  to  Euphrates  Crick, 
'ji'  I  bet  she's  gone  'n'  come  up  'ere  fer  a  new  deal !" 

"  Oh,  shet  yer  face,  Decker,  'n'  quit  yer  beefin',"  com- 
manded the  policeman,  loftily. 

The  woman  did  not  notice  that  he  had  taken  her 
part.  Perhaps  she  was  too  frightened  ;  perhaps  she  did 
not  understand  the  dialect  of  frontier  justice. 

"  I  reckon  I  better  be  goin',''  she  said,  with  excited 
awkwardness.  "  I — I've  got  bizness  up  'ere." 

"  Ye  wouldn't  git  away  if  /  was  marshal,"  declared 
Decker.  His  rebuff  had  given  his  long,  pathetic  nose  a 
look  of  momentary  excitement  and  rebellion. 

Evidently  the  woman  feared  that  she  might  indeed  be 
detained.  She  hesitated,  moved  a  little  to  one  side, 
then,  gaining  confidence,  made  her  way  uncertainly 
down  the  platform.  She  was  shivering  as  if  with  cold. 
There  were  gray  circles  around  her  eyes  which  had  not 
been  there  when  she  left  the  train.  The  street  leading 
across  the  bridge  and  up  the  slope  into  the  town  lay 
before  her.  She  stumbled  and  almost  fell  as  she  crossed 
the  branch  track  which  curved  away  to  the  south.  A 
foot-passenger  stared  at  her  curiously. 


"This  road  '11  take  me  away  from  the  depot,  won't 
it  ?"  she  inquired.  But  his  look  of  surprise  at  the  ab- 
surdity of  her  question  made  her  forget  what  she  had 
asked,  and  she  hurried  on  towards  the  shadow  of  the 
bridge  with  the  instinct  of  a  hunted  animal  for  conceal- 
ment. As  she  turned  hastily  and  glanced  behind  her, 
her  face  was  still  convulsed  by  the  throes  of  that  in- 
ward apprehension — was  the  policeman  following  her? 
Yes,  he  was ;  but  only  with  his  eyes,  as  he  had  followed 
the  drunken  cowboy. 

"  Heavy  blond  hair — not  bleached — wild-lookin'  blue 
eyes,  a  chin  that  trembles.  I'll  know  'er  if  I  see  'er 
ag'in,"  was  his  thought.  To  him  the  woman  was  a  po- 
tential criminal,  a  piece  of  human  bric-a-brac,  of  possible 
value  in  the  market  of  justice.  Our  officer  was  not 
without  relations  with  a  force  known  as  Pinkerton's,  and 
had  something  of  a  reputation  for  keenness. 

It  may  be  supplemented,  however,  that  he  never  set 
eyes  on  her  again,  so  that  his  notes,  except  for  the  prac- 
tice they  gave  him,  were  sheer  waste  of  brain.  The  last 
he  saw  of  her  she  was  stumbling  along  up  the  slope 
towards  the  bridge,  the  sunshine  all  about  her,  the  calm 
of  early  summer  in  the  air.  Beyond  her  the  mountains 
showed  their  stern  profile  against  the  hard  blue  sky.  In 
one  spot  the  foot-hills  were  pulling  down  the  gray  rain 
from  low-lying  clouds.  The  town  looked  singularly  out 
of  place  in  the  foreground  of  those  stoic  peaks.  The 
very  river  seemed  running  away  from  it,  and  trying  not 
to  look  back. 

Midway  of  the  bridge  the  woman  turned  again,  and 
gave  a  quick  glance  behind  her.  There  were  only  the 
usual  preoccupied  pedestrians,  each  contributing  his 


sacrifice  of  dignity  to  the  sum-total  of  hurry  and  unrest 
which  is  the  boast  of  every  Colorado  town.  A  spasm  of 
relief  crossed  her  features.  But  the  faintness  which  she 
had  shaken  off  by  sheer  force  of  will  returned  like  an 
ingulfing  wave,  and  she  grasped  the  railing  of  the  bridge 
to  keep  from  falling.  A  flight  of  delirious  images  swept 
through  her  mind.  The  mountains  glided  towards  her 
with  a  horrible,  stealthy  movement,  the  bridge  heaved, 
the  sunlit  water  wrapped  itself  around  her  feet  in  flap- 
ping fabrics  of  flame.  She  closed  her  eyes,  feeling  her- 
self sinking  dizzily.  Even  then  there  were  pictures 
against  the  gloom — stormy  clouds  shattered  by  thunder- 
bolts, apple-blossoms  strewn  on  black  velvet.  Was  she 
going  mad  ?  Was  she  dying  ? 

It  could  have  lasted  but  a  moment,  and  she  did  not 
quite  lose  consciousness.  The  apple  -  blossoms  became 
white  gauze  upon  the  air,  the  lightning  centred  itself 
on  a  colored  sphere  where  objects  were  painted.  When 
she  came  fully  to  herself  she  was  still  standing,  but  her 
whole  weight  was  wrenching  the  cramped  arm  which  she 
had  instinctively  thrown  around  the  railing  of  the  bridge. 
She  straightened  herself  with  difficulty.  The  mountains 
receded  through  pale  gray  blurs,  the  bridge  steadied  it- 
self, the  river  reflected  the  sunlight  in  cool  ripples.  She 
glanced  around  her  with  sick  apprehension.  No  one 
had  noticed  her.  She  was  as  completely  alone  as  if  she 
had  just  reached  heaven. 

People  passed  her,  but  she  did  not  heed.  The  human 
current  was  nothing ;  she  heard  only  the  ripple  beneath 
her,  keeping  time  to  her  own  thoughts.  She  had  drifted 
far  from  those  sounds  of  joy  and  sorrow  which  haunt 
the  secret  chambers  of  human  souls. 


At  last  she  pushed  herself  away  from  the  railing  with 
a  sigh. 

"  The  water  ain't  deep  'nough  to  drownd  a  full-grown 
woomarn  'thout  layin'  down  flat,"  she  said.  "  No,"  with 
a  last  glance  at  the  hurrying  ripple,  "I'll  take  a  new  start 
— a  new  start — V  see  what  comes  o'  livin'." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  woman  crossed  the  bridge  and  hurried  up  the 
street,  shrinking  a  little  from  a  white  cur  with  an  abrupt- 
looking  black  ear  that  roused  himself  from  the  door  of  a 
saloon  and  barked  at  her.  She  paused  in  front  of  a 
grocery  where  the  flies  were  holding  high  carnival,  and 
entered. 

An  untidy  little  girl  in  a  gingham  bonnet  came  for- 
ward from  behind  the  wire  screening  of  a  cheese-box. 
She  had  been  making  vicious  dabs  at  the  flies  with  the 
cheese-knife.  But  at  sight  of  a  customer  she  dropped 
her  instrument  of  slaughter.  She  had  a  cross-eye  which 
gave  her  an  air  of  hard  suspicion  ;  her  whole  make-up 
indicated  a  temperament  of  misanthropic  bitterness,  and 
a  range  of  experience  so  wide  as  to  suggest  that  her 
mind  had  taken  possession  of  her  body  before  its  time. 

Yet  the  woman  looked  relieved.  To  the  hunted,  the 
very  shadows  are  hunters,  and  in  this  girl  she  saw  only 
the  unquestioning  innocence  of  childhood. 

"'Tendin'  store?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone  of  timid  friend- 
liness. It  was  pleasant  to  make  advances  to  a  human 
being  after  the  strain  of  fear  whicli  had  so  long  op- 
pressed her. 

The  child  nodded. 

"Harm's  washin'  V  dad's  drunk,"  she  said.  And 
after  a  wistful  glance  outside,  "  I'd  ruther  be  playin'  in 
the  ditch  with  the  kids." 


11 


The  woman  stared. 

"  Drunk  ?"  she  repeated. 

"Out  in  the  wood -shed,"  explained  the  child,  in  a 
business-like  tone.  "  Up  las'  night  countin'  'lection  re- 
turns. Anything  wantin'  ?" 

The  woman  did  not  answer,  and  the  girl  elaborated 
her  explanation. 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  dad  kin  hold  more'a  any  man  in 
these  'ere  parts,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  pensive 
pride.  "  Marm  says  he  has  a  orfle  tank,  'n'  I  reckon 
she  kin  size  'im  up  'bout  right.  Marm  says  it  'pears 
like  he  has  to  fill  up  'bout  wunst  in  so  often,  'n'  then 
he's  all  right  till  the  nex'  time."  She  had  a  tough,  com- 
pact little  voice  which  refused  to  spread  on  reaching  the 
air,  but  came  straight  at  the  listener  like  a  shot.  "  He 
says  sprees  is  healthy.  He  says  it's  good  fer  the  sys- 
tum.  He  says  all  open-hearted  Collyrado  folks  does  it. 
I'm  shore  I  dunno.  Marm  says  she  reckons  it's  good 
fer  his  systum,  anyhow,  fer  he's  gettin'  so  fat  she  has 
to  put  wedges  in  his  clo'es."  She  grinned,  and  her  cross- 
eye  rolled  like  an  eccentric  in  its  groove.  "  Marm  says 
we'll  end  up  in  the  pore -house,  but  I  dunno  ;  I  reckon 
we  won't  's  long  's  the  pertaters  'n'  dried  apples  lasts. 
Anything  wantin'?" 

The  woman  purchased  some  crackers  and  cheese. 
After  paying  for  them  from  a  purse  which  seemed  toler- 
ably well  filled,  she  turned  towards  the  door.  There  she 
paused.  She  looked  about  her  doubtfully. 

"  Stranger  'ere,  I  reckon  ?"  questioned  the  girl,  who 
had  followed  her,  her  cross-eye  bulging  and  revolv- 
ing. 

"  Yes,  I  be,"  admitted  the   woman.     "  From  Illinoy. 


12 


On  the  Illinoy  River."  The  addition  was  made  with 
something  like  defiance. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  girl.  Illinoy  meant  nothing  more  to 
her  than  an  indefinite  portion  of  that  nebulous  haze 
from  which  "  tenderfeet "  came ;  and,  for  all  she  knew, 
the  river  might  have  been  identical  with  the  Ganges. 

"  What  I  want  is  to — to  go  out  on  a  ranch — somers — 
'way  out.  They's  ranches  'round  'ere,  ain't  they  ?" 

"Dead  oodles  o'  'em,"  replied  the  girl.  She  was 
crunching  a  cracker  which  she  had  taken  from  the  scale- 
pan  after  weighing  out  the  required  amount  for  her  cus- 
tomer. "  I  hope  ye  ain't  airain'  fer  Bauragardener's  ?" 

"  Baumgardener's — why  not  ?" 

"  'Cause  they're  Dutch.  They  can't  talk  United  States. 
They  stan'  aroun'  a-gruntin'  at  each  other  like  the  pigs 
in  the  pen.  They  don't  know  's  much  's  so  many  green 
punkins.  They  don't  know  'nough  to  turn  over  when 
they're  tired.  Whose  ranch  d'  ye  want  ?" 

"  Oh,  nobody's  in  pertickler.  I  jes'  wanted  to  know 
what  d'rection  they  be.  Be  they  any  off  that  way?"  She 
pointed  towards  the  most  inaccessible  mountains. 

"More'n  ye  could  shake  a  stick  at,"  declared  the 
child,  with  confidence,  still  crunching  her  cracker. 

"  'N'  which  is  the  shortest  way  to  'em  ?" 

The  child  considered.  Her  cross-eye  seemed  turned 
inward. 

"  I  reckon  the  shortest  way  fer  you  'ud  be  straight 
down -stream.  They's  a  purty  good  road,  V  they  say 
b'ars  is  scurce.  I've  heerd  how  they's  ranches  every 
which  way  from  'ere.  I  reckon  ye'll  strike  one  somers, 
if  ye  keep  on.  I  reckon  ye're  runnin'  away,  hey?" 
The  cross-eye  became  lively  again. 


13 


"  No — no  !"  cried  the  woman.  "  Runnin'  away  ?  What 
a  idee  !"  Her  eyes  had  lighted  up  with  their  old  fear. 

"  Oh,  folks  does  it  here — V  I've  heerd  marm  say  't 
the  world's  all  tarred  with  the  same  stick.  I  knowed  a 
man  wunst  wot  had  to  skin  out  fer  the  mountains — live- 
ly, too.  He  killed  'is  pardner.  They'd  a  -  dangled  'im 
from  the  bridge  if  they'd  a  -  ketched  'im.  Mebbe  ye'll 
find  him  out  there  on  a  ranch  somers.  I  reckon  he's 
alive.  I  heerd  marm  say  how  he  b'longed  to  a  breed  o' 
cats  like  wot  don't  die." 

The  child's  business-like  manner  reassured  the  woman, 
and  she  laughed,  but  nervously. 

"  Mebbe  I  will,"  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice.  "  Well, 
I  reckon  I  better  be  goin'."  And  she  glided  into  the 
street  and  around  the  corner. 

"  Queer  cattle,  these  'ere  tenderfeet,"  mused  the  cross- 
eyed girl,  returning  to  her  cheese-knife  and  flies. 

A  walk  of  five  minutes  brought  the  woman  to  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town.  She  was  near  the  river  again — she 
could  hear  its  inconsequent  babble  beyond  the  cedar- 
fringed  bank.  In  a  moment  the  current  flashed  into 
view,  and  she  stopped  to  watch  the  restless  glitter  and  to 
listen  to  the  murmurous  echoes  from  the  opposite  shore. 
Before  her  were  the  Donhala  Hills,  dappled  with  pinon 
and  scarred  with  gulches ;  at  her  back  rose  the  moun- 
tains, with  parting  snow  -  peaks  showing  the  blue  sky 
between. 

She  strayed  into  a  road  whose  course  might  have 
marked  the  windings  of  a  boy  on  a  fishing  excursion. 
In  half  an  hour  she  came  into  a  pleasant  bottom  where 
the  grim  face  of  Nature  took  an  upward  curve.  The 
sunshine  silvered  the  cotton-woods  as  if  reflected  from 


14 


the  water.  Everything  sraelled  clean  and  cool,  and  the 
rocks  looked  as  if  the  dew  had  washed  them.  Along 
the  river's  edge  the  violet's  blue  favor  fluttered,  and 
"  shooting-stars  "  dropped  soft  crimson  shadows  into  the 
water. 

"  This  is  a  purty  place,"  she  mused,  drawing  in  one 
long  breath  after  another.  "I  reckon  I  better  stop  'n' 
eat  suthin' — I  ain't  touched  a  thing  sence  yistiddy  noon. 
I  was  afeerd  to  git  off — the  telegraph  goes  everywhere." 

She  stooped  to  the  spring,  and  drank  from  her  hol- 
lowed palm ;  then  opened  her  sack  of  crackers  and  ate. 

"  Mountains  'n'  mountains  !  They're  scattered  aroun' 
's  careless  's  sacks  o'  grain.  I  never  seen  nothin'  like 
'em  afore — never.  A  body  could  hide  'ere  'n'  never  be 
found.  lowy — w'y,  lowy  ain't  a  patchin'  to  it,  nohow. 
Our  orchard  was  purty,  though,  in  May,  when  ye  could 
look  up  from  under  the  trees  'n'  see  the  sky  full  o'  blos- 
soms." 

She  plucked  a  lone  white  primrose  and  dropped  it 
lightly  into  the  water. 

"  I  wonder  where  it  '11  go  ?"  she  thought.  "  I  wonder 
where  Pll  go  ?" 

As  she  ate,  her  eyes  mechanically  followed  the  printed 
page  in  which  her  bundle  was  wrapped.  It  was  an  Iowa 
newspaper  with  a  "  patent"  inside.  There  was  a  column 
headed  "  Gems  of  Thought,"  and  it  was  upon  this  that 
her  eye  had  fallen  : 

"  Death  is  the  precipice  over  which  the  stream  of  life 
plunges  into  eternity.  It  remains  with  us  to  have  it 
spanned  by  the  rainbow  of  hope,  or  see  it  plunge  down- 
ward into  the  darkness  of  despair." 

She  read  the  words  twice,  then  sat  gazing  out  upon 


15 


the  river.  The  wind  blew  freshly  up-stream ;  the  weeds 
along  the  margin  rose  and  bent  with  the  teasing  caresses 
of  the  water. 

"Is  it  a  thing  we  can  do  fer  ourselves?"  she  asked, 
aloud.  "  Or  is  it  the  work  o'  God's  grace  ?" 

Her  eyes  turned  again  to  the  printed  column. 

"  Every  event  in  our  lives  is  a  prophecy  fulfilled  or  un- 
fulfilled." 

"  That's  a  orfle  idee,"  she  murmured,  after  thinking  it 
over.  "  'N'  if  it's  true,  what  '11  my  future  be  ?" 

She  finished  her  breakfast  and  started  on.  "  No  mat- 
ter," she  concluded,  "  God  can  'tend  to  it !"  The  sun- 
shine, the  trees,  the  mountains  all  at  once  filled  her  with 
a  large,  joyous  faith  which  made  the  creative  Love  re- 
sistless. She  could  have  sung,  had  not  the  river  taken 
the  words  out  of  her  mouth  beforehand.  Each  step  dis- 
closed new  beauties,  new  sublimities.  The  park  narrowed 
to  a  canon ;  the  river  deepened ;  the  shadows  leaped 
headlong  from  the  heights  into  the  current.  The  rush- 
ing, booming  sound  of  the  water  gave  her  a  pleasant 
sense  of  deafness,  as  if  nature  were  trying  to  impress 
upon  her  the  remoteness  of  the  world. 

"  Things  seem  tryin'  to  be  good  to  me,"  she  thought, 
lingering  here  and  there  to  look  and  listen. 

She  came  to  a  swollen  tributary  of  the  river,  full  of 
the  red  and  yellow  coloring  of  the  foot-hills.  "That 
must  a-been  a  hard  shower  up  there,"  she  thought.  But 
the  cloud  had  gone,  and  the  snowy  peaks  rose  on  all 
sides  like  lofty  shrines  of  pearl,  clear  cut  against  a  sky 
of  periwinkle  blue. 

The  river  beach  disappeared.  The  water  which,  in 
the  broad  shallows  of  the  park,  had  loitered  in  the  sun- 


1C 


shine  like  a  little  child,  "  patient  of  idleness,"  plunged 
through  shadowy  defiles  with  a  sullen  rush  and  uttered 
its  call  strongly,  in  the  tone  of  epic  purpose.  There 
were  heavy  throbs  of  sound  in  the  lateral  gulches,  like 
thoughts  struggling  hopelessly  in  benumbed  brains. 
The  mountains  became  subjective,  occupying  time,  not 
space,  like  the  operations  of  one's  mind. 

The  road  got  along  as  best  it  could  among  rocks  and 
fallen  timber.  Once  the  woman  heard  a  wagon  behind 
her,  the  thunder  of  its  wheels  shaking  the  rude  bridge 
she  had  just  crossed,  and  she  concealed  herself  hastily. 
From  behind  a  rock  she  watched ;  but  she  could  have 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  danger  from  that  honest  wagoner, 
jogging  along  with  nothing  but  the  mountain  landscape 
and  his  dinner  in  prospect.  He  would  have  been  glad 
to  give  her  a  lift,  she  knew;  but  she  was  not  tired,  and 
it  did  her  good  to  be  alone.  It  refreshed  her  like  a 
pause  in  prolonged  hard  work. 

Finally  the  road  turned  away  from  the  river  and 
climbed  along  the  side  of  a  gulch,  feeling  its  way  around 
points  of  rock  in  mid-air,  or  struggling  upward  among 
the  gaunt  pines.  No  engineer  ever  saw  that  road — ex- 
cept, possibly,  in  a  nightmare.  But  painters  have  had  in- 
spired dreams  of  it.  Below,  along  an  unseen  tributary 
of  the  river,  the  cottonwoods  made  a  glittering  green 
blur,  and  on  the  steep-up  slopes  the  pines  ascended 
solemnly,  like  priests  going  up  to  a  sacrifice.  Trans- 
verse gulches  branched  off  on  every  hand — deep,  silent 
clefts  packed  full  of  shadows,  revealing  a  white  water- 
fall here  and  there,  like  a  veiled  maiden  leaping  out 
from  the  rocks  and  disappearing  in  a  flash.  The  trees 
swayed  dreamily  in  the  thick,  submarine  light  of  the 


17 


gulches ;  the  snow  sent  a  zigzag  gleam  along  the  horizon. 
That  gray-and-black  world  is  so  beautiful !  One  looks 
at  it  and  falls  in  love  with  desolation.  And  the  moun- 
tains—  they  take  one's  breath;  they  are  like  visible 
thunder.  One  thinks,  but  blankly,  as  in  the  presence  of 
God.  They  are  supernatural ;  it  is  as  if  the  gazer  were 
cut  off  by  death  from  those  trivial  scenes  where  time 
gives  and  takes  all  things,  and  set  down  in  some  realm 
of  stupendous  abstract  ideas.  It  is  enough  to  exist; 
one  becomes  forgetful  of  duty,  pleasure,  and  suffering, 
and  drinks  in  the  magnificent  indifference  of  the  uni- 
verse. But  when  the  storms  come  in  summer,  these 
gulches  wake  up  in  anger,  the  air  is  torn  by  the  discord 
of  torrents.  The  Atbara  itself,  bearing  its  freight  of 
dead  elephants  and  buffaloes  down  to  the  Nile,  is  not 
more  violent  than  one  of  these  suddenly  distempered 
streams.  Then  the  mountains  are  tremulous  with  land- 
slides, and  one  shivers  with  a  sense  of  the  destructive 
forces  which  underlie  the  frail  edifice  of  the  world. 

Twice  the  road  branched,  and  each  time  the  woman 
was  tempted  to  turn  aside,  knowing  that  a  ranch  must 
be  near  at  hand. 

"  'Tain't  fur  'nough  yit,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I 
want  to  git  so  fu^t  I  can  defy  'em  !" 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  sun  was  low  on 
the  mountain-tops.  "  Is  the  day  gone  so  soon  ?"  she 
questioned,  in  dismay.  The  rocks  were  melting  into 
the  colorless  tone  of  shadows,  the  wind  became  a  warn- 
ing voice.  Along  a  misty  ridge  high  above  her  the 
pines  seemed  groping  disconsolate. 

She  paused,  gazing  up  at  the  ridge  wistfully.  "  If  I 
could  only  git  up  there,"  she  thought,  "  I  reckon  I  could 


18 


have  a  wide  view  'n'  see  where  to  go.  I  must  hurry, 
hurry  !"  And  she  pushed  on,  half  running. 

The  hollow  spaces  of  air  between  her  and  the  moun- 
tains filled  up  ;  the  peaks  seemed  so  close  that  she  could 
reach  out  and  touch  them.  She  lost  the  pine-clad  ridge 
with  its  canopy  of  swaying  cloud;  but  presently  it  came 
into  view  again,  the  vaporous  outlines  of  the  pines  still 
etched  softly  against  their  misty  background. 

"  Does  the  road  lead  up  there  ?"  she  questioned.  "  If 
the  light  '11  only  last  till  I  kin  look  aroun'  me !" 

The  road  approached  the  misty  ridge  circuitously. 
The  sun  touched  the  mountain-tops  and  sank  in  a  flying 
splendor  of  prismatic  cloud.  The  pines  shivered,  pierced 
by  the  last  golden  lance  of  sunset.  A  cool  wind  sprang 
up  from  the  west.  The  peaks  rose  gray  against  the 
shrunken  red  lights  and  looked  as  if  struck  with  death. 

"  If  I  should  have  to  sleep  out  'ere — "  the  woman 
thought,  gazing  fearfully  at  her  wild  surroundings.  She 
hurried  forward,  assuring  herself  that  she  was  in  no  real 
peril  even  if  she  failed  to  find  a  lodging  for  the  night. 
The  wild  beasts  were  nearly  all  hunted  out  of  existence, 
and  she  was  altogether  reckless  of  a  wetting. 

The  road  came  out  on  the  ridge  which  she  had  kept 
before  her  as  a  sort  of  goal.  The  pines  seemed  chasing 
each  other  all  about  her,  tearing  their  way  through  the 
clouds,  which  fluttered  away  in  tatters  and  dropped  out 
of  sight  in  the  big,  still  gulches.  The  shadows  fell  gray 
and  dense ;  there  were  awful  whisperings  in  the  upper 
air,  low  sobbings,  ghostly  laughter.  The  human  soul 
alone  in  the  mountains  is  made  the  butt  of  Nature's  tre- 
mendous jokes,  and  takes  it  tragically. 

At  last  the  road  branched  again  into  a  wagon-track 


19 


leading  away  to*  the  left  through  the  fog.  The  woman 
turned  aside  eagerly.  A  ranch  must  be  near!  Good- 
fortune  had  not  deserted  her ;  it  had  been  attendant  on 
her  wishes  all  day. 

In  a  few  moments  a  dull  blot  of  light  appeared  on  the 
mist,  a  white  sphere  shading  into  gray  edges.  Gradually 
it  became  oblong  and  angular.  She  hurried  towards  it, 
finding  her  proper  self  again  in  the  prospect  of  human 
companionship.  Presently  she  distinguished  the  loud, 
muffled  barking  of  dogs. 

"  They've  heerd  me,"  she  muttered.  And  then,  thank- 
fully, "  I'm  glad  they're  in  the  house."  And  she  sped 
onward  through  the  mist. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  woman  knocked,  and  the  dogs  barked  louder. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  «kadwiddled !"  cried  a  voice  from  with- 
in— a  feminine  voice,  shrilly  pitched,  capable  of  com- 
plaints, objurgations,  shrieks.  Then  there  was  a  listen- 
ing silence.  "  Teared  like  I  heerd  knockin',"  the  voice 
continued.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  got  to  seem'  things 
next — snakes  'n'  beetles,  like  ole  man  Stincen  when  he 
had  the  tremens.  Who'd  be  comin'  'ere  ?  Make  them 
dawgs  shet  up !  Their  barkin'  goes  clean  through  me." 

The  stranger  repeated  her  knock. 

"  It  is  some  'un !"  cried  the  voice,  growing  shriller 
with  excitement.  "  Well,  be  ye  goin'  to  open  the  door? 
Better  slam  yer  frame  up  agin  the  side  o'  the  house  a 
few  more  times — better  stram  'n'  straddle  aroun'  the 
table  two-three  hours  longer  afore  ye  make  up  yer  mind 
the  knockin'  comes  from  the  outside." 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  man — or  was  it  a  baby 
gone  to  seed  ? — who  uttered  a  howl  of  surprise. 

"  Sufferin'  catfish  ! — it's  a  woomarn  !"  he  cried,  while 
his  left  arm  and  leg  flew  up  as  if  jerked  by  a  string. 

"A  woomarn?"  echoed  the  voice  far  back,  in  the 
room.  "Ye've  got  'em  wuss  'n  Stincen,  to  be  seein' 
wimmin  at  this  time  o'  night !  Wimmin  !  If  I  had  a 
dollar  I'd  give  it  to  ye  to  go  off  'n'  fling  mud  at  yerself. 
Or  is  it  Cynthy  Beanston  ?  If  'tis,  ye  kin  jes'  tell  'er  to 
shin  out  o'  this  or  I'll  heave  bilin'  water  on  'er.  So  there  !" 


"  But  this  ain't  Cynthy,"  cried  the  man.  "  It's  a 
bctter-lookin'  'un.  This  'un's  got  light  hair  !"  His  left 
arm  was  still  extended  at  a  right  angle  to  his  body,  like 
the  lecturer  at  a  dime  museum  who  is  exhibiting  a  mon- 
strosity. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  which  had  the  effect  of 
culmination.  Then  the  directing  voice  in  the  rear  of  the 
room  assumed  an  awful  tone. 

"  Well,"  it  said,  "  be  ye  goin'  to  ast  'er  to  come  in  ? 
Or  be  ye  goin'  to  teeter  aroun'  there  till  Jedgment  Day, 
like  a  whangdoodle  on  one  leg  ?  Or  ain't  ye  goin'  to  do 
nuther?  Ye  don't  mean  to  stan'  there  a-gogglin'  at  'er 
all  night,  I  hope  !" 

"  Come  in !"  cried  the  man,  flinging  the  door  wide. 
He  stared  in  a  shamefaced  way  as  the  stranger  passed 
him.  Then,  with  a  wild  longing  for  something  on  which 
to  lay  "  the  emphasis  of  hospitality,"  he  made  a  dash  at 
the  three  dogs  who  were  still  barking  furiously.  "  Jump- 
in'  jee !"  he  yelled,  "  where's  the  manners  o'  them  crit- 
ters ?  Git  out,  Keno !  afore  I  tromple  yer  frame  with 
both  feet !"  He  took  after  the  three  dogs  all  at  once, 
kicking  and  waving  his  arms,  but  never  hitting  anything. 
"  You-Know  'n'  Nipper,  go  'n'  lay  down  by  the  fire,  or 
I'll  kick  a  lung  out  o'  ye  !" 

The  stranger  had  entered.  The  firelight  played  across 
her  pale  features  and  lustrous  coils  of  close -wound  hair. 
The  old  woman  stared,  leaning  forward  and  grasping  the 
arms  of  her  chair. 

"  A  young  woomarn,  'Biathar  !  a  young  woomarn  with 
—  with  a  bundle."  The  words  finished  her  surprise 
feebly,  and  she  added  at  once  for  emphasis,  "  Well,  I'll 
be  consquizzled  !" 


Abiathar  grinned  sheepishly. 

"  Yesser,  a  gal,"  he  articulated,  with  a  gurgle  of  de- 
light. "  'N'  ye  kin  jes'  git  away  from  'er,  Keno,  or  I'll 
eat  yer  liver  'n'  wear  ye  out !  Well  1"  He  had  a  mild, 
luniform  face,  with  lavender-colored  pimples,  and  in  the 
candlelight  his  skin  took  on  a  sweaty  glister.  He  moved 
about  the  room  in  awkward  agitation,  exhibiting  in  all 
its  phases  that  anarchy  of  the  soul  which  possesses  the 
Colorado  cowboy  at  sight  of  a  woman,  especially  if  she 
be  young. 

On  a  deal  table  a  few  clumsy  earthen-ware  dishes  had 
been  arranged  for  supper.  A  fire  burned  on  the  big 
open  hearth,  near  which  an  old  woman  sat,  propped  up 
by  pillows.  Bacon  was  sputtering  over  the  fire,  and  took 
the  air  with  an  appetizing  odor. 

The  stranger  paused  in  timid  apology.  She  held  her 
bundle  by  both  hands  in  front  of  her,  and  her  head  was 
bent  a  little  forward. 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  skeerd  ye,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
sounded  strangely  musical  after  the  strident  tones  of  the 
man. 

The  old  woman's  face  softened.  Her  features  were 
wrinkled,  sharp,  and  hard,  indicating  an  Alpine  rugged- 
ness  of  character  like  her  surroundings. 

"  I  ain't  skeerd !  But  I  own  I'm  took  back.  'Biathar, 
quit  yer  slallyin'  aroun'  the  table,  for  any  sakes,  'n'  tend 
to  the  bacon  afore  it's  scorched  to  a  cinder.  'D  ye  ever 
see  the  way  that  critter  throws  hisself  ?  It's  allus  been 
jes'  so ;  if  they  was  a  gal  within  gunshot,  ye'd  see 
'im  begin  to  snicker  'n'  snort  'n'  act  the  fool  gen'ral- 
]y.  If  I  was  well  for  the  inside  o'  a  day,  I  tell  ye 
I'd  straighten  him  out,  if  I  had  to  do  it  with  a  stick 


2,3 


o'  timber !  Good  Ian' !  Where'd  ye  drop  from,  any- 
way ?" 

The  stranger  answered,  with  grave  gentleness  : 

"  I  come  up  from  Donhaly  City." 

"  'Biathar,  'd  ye  hear  that?  She  come  up  from  Don- 
haly City.  Where's  yer  hoss  ?" 

"I  walked." 

The  old  woman  sank  back  as  if  taking  deliberate 
counsel  of  her  own  credulity. 

"  Ye  walked,"  she  repeated,  vacantly. 

"  Yes." 

"  All  alone  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  She  walked — all  alone."  The  words  were  uttered 
with  a  ponderous  calm. 

There  was  another  silence.     Then  : 

"  Well,  I'll  be  bamsquogglcd  !"  the  old  woman  cried. 

Nipper — a  mangy  yellow  cur  that  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  picked  up  in  the  alley  back  of  a  taxidermist's  shop 
— sniffed  about  the  young  woman's  skirts,  then  sank  in 
front  of  the  fire.  ' , 

"  He  won't  bite.  He  ain't  got  no  teeth.  We  jes' 
keep  'im  'cause  we've  had  'im  so  long,"  said  the  old 
woman,  vaguely.  She  still  sat  leaning  forward  with  the 
light  of  hard  examination  in  her  gaze.  She  was  very 
thin,  and  the  candlelight  drew  hard  little  triangles  in 
both  cheeks  and  stuffed  her  eye-sockets  full  of  shadows, 
through  which  her  eyes  pricked  like  electric  points. 

"  Set  down — set  down,  ma'am !"  she  cried,  at  last. 
"  'Biathar,  do  quit  lankin'  aroun'  in  that  everlastin'  per- 
misc'ous  way,  'n'  set  a  cheer  fer  the  vis'tor.  I  swan,  it's 
been  so  long  scnce  I've  had  comp'ny,  I  dunno  how  to  act. 


Take  the  lady's  bundle  V  lay  it  on  the  kag  there  by  the 
cubbard.  'N'  heng  up  'er  hat — fling  them  gunnysacks 
down  anywheres.  I'm  clean  'shamed  o'  that  boy,  I  am. 
Livin'  'ere  in  the  mountains,  he  ain't  got  no  more  man- 
ners 'n  a  house  pig.  I've  often  told  'im  so,  but  it  don't 
seem  to  do  no  good.  I  tell  Zury — that's  my  old  man — 
't  folks  ortn't  to  have  fam'lies  if  they  can't  rustle  aroun' 
'n'  find  a  decent  place  to  bring  'em  up  in.  'N'  what  d'ye 
reckon  he  says  to  that  ?" 

The  stranger  shook  her  head. 

"  He  says,  if  a  feller  can't  do  what  he  wants  to  do, 
the  nex'  bes'  thing  is  to  do  graceful  what  we  have  to 
do.  'N'  he  meant  it,  too — that's  jest 's  much  's  he  keers. 
Graceful !  I'd  like  to  ketch  myself  doin'  things  grace- 
ful 't  I  didn't  want  to  do  !  I  find  the  only  way  to  git 
what  I  want  is  to  kick — 'n'  high.  'N'  like  's  not  I  don't 
git  it  then.  Things  is  so  contrairy  in  this  Western  coun- 
try. A  feller  'd  better  be  in  Tunket  any  day — he  had. 
So  ye  walked  all  the  way  from  Donhaly  City,  ma'am  ? 
Good  Ian' !  what  '11  Zury  say  to  that  ?  Well,  I  was  young 
myself  wunst,  'n'  I've  found  out  't  a  stirrin'  foot  '11  allus 
git  suthin',  if  it's  only  a  thorn.  It's  a  mis' able  world  !" 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  beautiful  kind  o'  world,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  soft,  bright  eyes.  "  It  never  looked  so 
purty  's  it  did  to  me  to-day — so  like  the  work  o'  God." 

"  God  ?"  cried  the  old  woman,  harshly — "  God  ?  What's 
He  got  to  do  with  it  ?  I  tell  ye,  it's  devil 't  ails  this 
world  !  Oh,  I've  seen  lots  o'  it — sixty  years  o'  it — 'n'  I 
know !" 

She  went  on  with  a  robustness  of  assertion,  a  vigor  of 
presentation  which  fairly  took  her  breath,  but  quieted 
down  at  last  with  a  sort  of  gasp. 


25 


"  'N'  ye  reely  b'lieve  they  is  a  God  ?"  she  asked,  fixing 
her  eyes  on  the  stranger  with  grim  wonder. 

"  Surely !" 

"  Well,  I'll  be  ragfuddled  !  I  made  shore  't  everybody 
'd  give  up  that  idee  long  ago  !" 

"  I'll  never  give  it  up,"  said  the  quiet  voice. 

"  Jes'  wait  till  ye've  lived  a  year  in  Collyraydo  !  Well, 
it  don't  matter ;  stick  to  it,  if  it's  a  comfert  to  ye.  How 
'd  ye  happen  to  git  here,  anyhow  ?" 

"  I  can't  hardly  say.    This  ain't  Baumgardener's,  is  it  ?" 

The  old  woman  laughed  with  shrill  gusto. 

"  'Biathar,  she  wants  to  know  if  we  ain't  Baumgar- 
deners  !  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  thort  we  was  Dutch, 
by  the  way  we  talked.  Lor',  no,  child  !  They  live  over 
torrards  Rattlesnake  Gulch,  beyond  Starbird's.  Our 
name  's  Irish.  We  don't  come  from  Ireland,  but  we 
might,  fer  all  the  good  we  be  on  this  airth.  'Biathar, 
quit  yer  gawkin'  at  the  lady  V  'tend  to  yer  knittin'.  Ye 
mus'  try  not  to  mind  'im — I've  sometimes  thort  mebbe 
he  ain't  'countable  fer  'is  own  foolishness.  Go  off,  do ! 
— it's  'nough  to  drive  a  cat  wild  to  see  the  way  ye  go 
slaggerin'  aroun'.  Put  on  'nother  plate  'n'  set  out  the 
glass  sugar-bowl,  fer  the  Ian'  sake ;  'n'  open  a  can  o' 
them  Californy  peaches ;  'n'  where's  the  blue-glass  salt- 
cellar with  the  nickel-plated  led  ?  'N'  when  the  coffee's 
done,  go  out  'n'  yell  fer  dad  'n'  Julius.  Julius  is  my 
oldes'  one.  He's  the  only  one  o'  the  fam'ly  't  knows 
'nough  to  chaw  fast  'n'  swoller  straight.  Good  Ian' !  I 
ain't  seen  a  woomarn  afore — a  reel  wooinarn,  I  mean — 
fer  three  hull  months.  They's  a  gal — Cynthy  Beanston 
— she  comes  over  wunst  in  a  while  from  Barb  Wire 
Ranch — she'd  be  'ere  all  the  time  if  I'd  let  'er.  But  she 


ain't  a  woomarn  ;  she's  a  thing,  V  don't  count.  She  don't 
know  she's  'live  half  the  time,  she's  sech  a  fool.  Do 
dust  off  that  sugar-bowl,  'Biathar !  Look  at  'im,  now, 
goin'  to  set  it  out  jes'  like  he  took  it  off  'm  the  shelf — 
*oh,  he's  a  honeysuckle,  'Biathar  is,  V  me  laid  up  'ere  fer 
three  solid  weeks  with  rheumatics,  'n'  everything  goin' 
to  rack  'n'  ruin  with  the  dust  on  it.  Don't  stan'  there 
all  night  with  yer  mouth  open,  tryin'  to  take  in  every- 
thing at  one  look,  like  God  A'mighty  ;  but  git  a  rag — git 
a  rag  'n'  dust  it  off !  Well,  it  does  me  good  to  see  ye, 
ma'am,  anyhow  !  I  don't  see  nothin'  but  cows  'n'  moun- 
tains, year  in  'n'  year  out,  as  ye  might  say.  Sometimes 
I  feel  like  I'd  turned  into  a  cow  or  a  mountain,  I  dunno 
which.  What's  yer  name,  anyhow  ?" 

"  Webster — Emmy  Webster." 

The  answer  came  with  a  hesitating  promptness  which 
caused  Mrs.  Irish  to  meditate  for  a  moment. 

"  That  ain't  that  gal's  name  no  more  'n  'tis  mine,"  she 
was  thinking.  "  She's  a-runnin'  away  from  somers  'n' 
tryin'  to  hide  'erself.  She  ain't  used  to  lyin',  though. 
That's  one  thing  in  'er  favior."  But  aloud  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  conciliation :  "  I  allus  had  a  soft  side  fer  the 
name  o'  Emmy.  I  had  a  sister  wunst  named  that.  She 
was  younger  'n  me.  She  had  blue  eyes ;  'n'  I  'member 
the  little  pink  gownd  she  useter  wear  on  Sundays,  with 
tucks  'n'  a  sash,  V  'er  hair  curled  in  'er  neck.  She  died 
when  she  was  a  little  thing — she  was  allus  frail.  They 
buried  'er  up  on  the  hill,  along  o'  the  others — jest  atween 
the  ole  orchard  'n'  the  woods.  I  kep'  'er  picter  fer  years 
— one  o'  them  daguerrytypes  on  lookin'-glass ;  but  we 
lost  it  somehow  in  packin'  'n'  unpackin'  when  we  come 
to  Collyraydo." 


Something  in  this  recollection  had  wrought  a  change 
in  the  old  woman's  face  and  manner.  Her  voice  had 
become  softly  reminiscent ;  she  was  gazing  at  her  visitor, 
but  beyond  her.  The  fire  purred  softly  ;  there  was  a 
musical  stir  in  the  chimney,  as  if  the  night  had  suddenly 
become  vocal.  From  the  outside  world  came"  the  noise 
of  the  water  in  the  gulch  below  the  house,  deepening 
into  boding  murmurs  or  dying  out  in  a  whispering  rev- 
erie. 

"  'Ud  ye  mind  lettin'  me  take  up  the  supper  ?"  Emma 
finally  asked.  "  I'm  used  to  workin'  'bout  the  house. 
I've  done  it  all  my  life,  'n'  I'm  shore  'Biathar  won't  ob- 
ject." This  was  accompanied  by  a  smile  in  the  direction 
of  the  young  man. 

Abiathar's  face  split  into  a  slow,  broad  grin.  "  Oh,  / 
won't  kick — ye  kin  go  a-gamblin'  on  that,"  he  declared. 

"  Shame  on  ye  fer  a  lazy  heap,  'Biathar !"  cried  his 
mother.  "  Arter  she's  gone  'n'  walked  all  the  way  from 
Donhaly  City,  too.  Where's  yer  manners?  Emmy  '11 
make  shore  I  ain't  done  my  duty  by  ye.  I  reckon  ye'll 
let  me  call  ye  Emmy,  won't  ye?" 

"  Yes,  do."  The  young  woman  was  peeping  into  the 
coffee  -  pot.  "  It's  jest  on  the  p'int  o'  bilin',"  she  an- 
nounced. "  Shall  I  take  up  the  pertaters  'n'  bacon  ?" 

"  I  reckon  ye  might  's  well.  'Biathar,  go  out  'n'  yell 
for  dad  'n'  Julius.  I'm  clean  took  back  at  the  way  ye 
find  us,"  said  the  old  woman,  unable  to  keep  silent  on 
those  subjects  on  which,  as  a  housewife,  she  was  most 
sensitive.  "  Ye  wouldn't  find  things  in  sech  a  mess  if  I 
was  able  to  crawl  aroun',  I  kin  tell  ye  that.  But  what 
be  I  to  do  ?  If  a  feller  can't,  they  can't,  'n'  what's  the 
use  o'  roarin'  ?  Well,  it  does  look  good  to  see  a  woomarn 


28 

handlin'  the  dishes,  V  no  mistake.  Sech  times  's  I've 
had !  I  swan,  I  wouldn't  live  the  las'  three  weeks  over 
ag'in,  I  wouldn't— not  fer  the  hull  State  o'  Collyraydo, 
'n'  Canady  throwed  in.  Here  I've  sot  watchin  'Biathar 
striddle  gravy  from  floor  to  ceilin'  till  I've  had  to  grit 
my  teeth  "to  keep  out  o'  a  fit — it's  the  heavenly  truth  !  I 
useter  'low  'twas  bad  'nough  to  do  the  work  o'  a  ranch 
when  I  was  well ;  'n'  many  a  time  I've  thort  o'  the  poitry 
in  my  ole  reading-book  to  school : 

"  '  It's  oh,  to  be  a  slave 

Along  o'  the  barb'rous  Turk, 
Where  wimmin  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 
If  this  is  Christian  work!' 

But  it  was  joy  'longside  o'  havin'  to  watch  'Biathar  keep 
house.  See — la !  you  ain't  spilt  a  drop.  If  he'd  a-took 
up  that  bacon,  now,  he'd  a-swizzled  great  puddles  o'  it 
into  every  corner  o'  the  room,  'n'  finished  by  plasterin' 
it  up  agin  the  winders.  Look  at  this  floor!  Ain't  it 
'nough  to  kill  snakes?  'N'  me  a-settin'  'ere  fer  three 
weeks,  a-lookin'  on  'n'  tryin'  to  keep  still !  I  tole  Zury 
yestiddy  he'd  have  to  go  down  to  town  'n'  git  a  gal. 
We're  poorer  'n'  Poverty's  backdoor  —  jes'  look  at  us! 
Don't  we  look  like  Poverty  salutin'  Mis'ry  on  the  Rocks 
o'  Despair  ?  But  I  can't  stan'  everything.  'Biathar  makes 
me  clean  wompercropt  with  'is  mixin's  'n'  mussin's." 

Emma  Webster  stopped  between  the  fireplace  and  the 
table,  regarding  the  old  woman  earnestly. 

"  Ye  was  talkin'  o'  sendin'  fer  a  gal  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  tole  'em  they'd  have  to  see  to  it  to-morrer.  I  tell 
ye  I  can't  stan'  it — " 

"  Would  ye  let  me  stay  ?"  asked  Emma  Webster,  ea- 
gerly. 


29 


The  old  woman's  swollen  hands  grasped  the  arms  of 
her  chair  with  tremulous  excitement. 

"  You  ?" 

"  I'd  be  so  glad  !  I  can  do  the  work.  I'm  young  V 
strong  'n'  willin'.  'N'  I'm  a  good  nurse.  I  'tended  my 
mother  all  through  'er  las'  sickness.  If  ye  reckon  I'd 
do—" 

Mrs.  Irish  leaned  forward  eagerly, 

"Do?  If  I  reckon  ye'd  do?"  She  chopped  up  her 
speech  into  half  syllables  in  her  excitement.  "  I  feel  like 
gittin'  down  on  my  knees  'n'  thankin'  ye !  I'd  like  ye, 
1  know ;  I  like  ye  a'ready.  Ye  take  hold  jesj  's  handy 
's  if  ye'd  been  borned  'ere.  Don't  they  expect  ye  no- 
wheres  else  ?" 

Emma  Webster  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  it's  settled  !"  cried  Mrs.  Irish,  with  joyful  de- 
cision. "  I  feel  like  the  hull  Snowy  Range  'd  been  lift- 
ed off  o'  me  !  'N'  'ere  's  dad  'n'  Julius." 

Two  men  entered,  clattering  across  the  floor  in  their 
heavy  cowhide  boots.  One  was  a  plump  old  man,  with 
upward  -  slanting  wrinkles,  a  peachy  complexion,  and  an 
abdominal  region  bearing  the  curve  with  which  nature 
surrounds  a  good  digestion  when  encouraged  by  plenty 
of  food  and  an  easy  temper. 

The  other  member  of  the  small  household,  Julius  Irish, 
was  cast  in  a  more  strenuous  mould.  His  tall,  solid  fig- 
ure, exhibiting  the  "  manly  quality  of  leanness,"  had  an 
intrinsic  dignity  independent  of  clothes,  and  was  finished 
off  by  a  head  which  seemed  predestined  to  dominate.  A 
strong  edifice,  but  an  edifice  with  the  soul  for  a  founda- 
tion ;  a  man  who  could  fight,  but  never  except  for  a 
principle.  His  face  was  thin  and  severe,  a  monument  to 


the  conquests  of  a  strong  will  over  self-interest ;  but  its 
sternness  shaded  off  around  the  edges,  so  to  speak,  into 
a  kindly  tolerance,  which,  in  a  man  of  broad  experience, 
would  be  ascribed  to  a  wide  comparison  of  men,  and  a 
repeated  adjustment  of  self  under  new  conditions.  This 
peculiarity  in  Julius  Irish  indicated  a  mental  experience 
large  when  the  limitations  of  his  life  were  taken  into  ac- 
count. He  had  thought  much,  had  reached  conclusions  ; 
the  truth  was  in  him,  though  sometimes  unorganized, 
scattered,  like  a  half-dreamed  melody  in  the  brain  of  a 
musician.  In  religion  he  might  easily  substitute  /  for 
God,  but  never  for  his  fellows. 

The  two  looked  at  Emma  Webster  in  reticent  sur- 
prise. "  Well,  mother  !"  cried  the  old  man.  "  So  we've 
got  comp'ny,  have  we  ?  Good !  we  need  cheerin'  up — 
we've  been  too  much  alone  lately  !"  And  he  rubbed  his 
hands  in  hearty  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Irish  bridled. 

"  Yes,  I'd  talk  'bout  cheerin'  up  if  I'd  jes'  been  down 
to  Denver  on  a  compoun'  double-' n'-twisted  toot!"  she 
cried. 

"  On  bizness,  mother — on  bizness,"  corrected  her  hus- 
band. 

Julius  Irish  came  forward  and  offered  his  hand. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,"  he  said,  with  simple  directness. 
"  Mother's  been  longin'  fer  the  sight  o'  a  woomarn — 
they're  mighty  scurce  in  these  parts." 

"  Few  V  scatterin',  like  hens'  teeth,"  added  the  old 
man,  facetiously.  "  'N'  twic't  's  welcome  !" 

They  sat  down  to  supper.  Julius  drew  up  his  mother's 
chair  and  filled  her  plate,  pausing  to  ask  a  solicitous  ques- 
tion now  and  then.  "  Shall  I  put  gravy  on  yer  pertater  ? 


31 


Or  'ud  ye  rather  have  butter?  Tell  me  when  I  git  on 
'nough  salt — yc  know  ye  don't  like  's  much  's  what  I  do." 
Emma  watched  this  Julius  as  she  poured  the  coffee. 
She  thought  him  handsome — and  something  more.  She 
had  never  before  seen  a  man  with  so  gentle  and  severe  a 
face. 

"  If  he's  cross,  though,  I  reckon  it's  mostly  with  his- 
self,"  she  decided,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  He  looks  like 
he  wouldn't  be  easy  satisfied  with  'is  own  doin's." 

Julius  looked  at  her  occasionally  with  curiosity.  Where 
had  she  come  from  ?  What  was  her  business  here  ? 

As  the  supper  progressed,  Mrs.  Irish  explained  her  ar- 
rangement with  the  stranger. 

"  That's  good,"  said  Julius,  with  a  glance  of  quiet 
approval.  "  I  reckon  ye're  jest  what  mother's  been 
needin'.  She'll  be  well  in  no  time  now." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  meal  Abiathar  emitted 
desultory  gurgles  of  joy,  but  continued  as  attentive  as 
ever  to  the  recurrent  duties  of  the  table.  Mrs.  Irish  com- 
plained of  the  climate,  which  she  made  altogether  re- 
sponsible for  her  illness. 

"  It's  this  'ere  air,"  she  declared.  "  It  dries  up  all  the 
juice  in  a  feller's  joints,  V  then  o'  course  they  creak  V 
ache  ;  'n'  the  nights  is  so  cold  up  'ere  all  summer  't  we 
can't  have  the  winders  open,  'n'  I'm  shore  that's  bad." 
She  explained  the  presence  of  a  pot  of  tall  lilies,  whose 
fragrance  was  faintly  perceptible  above  the  odors  of 
supper,  by  assuring  the  stranger  that  there  were  frosts 
here  even  in  June.  "  I  did  want  a  posy  or  two  like  we 
useter  have  back  East,  'n'  so  I  sent  fer  some  roots,  'n' 
this  'un  growed.  But  if  I  was  to  leave  it  out-doors  one 
night  it  'ud  look  like  I'd  poured  scaldin'  water  all  over  it. 


We  can't  grow  pertaters  nor  notbin'  up  'ere.  Oh  yes, 
we've  got  a  garden  down  in  the  Back  Canon"  —  she 
spoke  of  the  place  as  if  it  were  the  back  yard — "  V  the 
hills  seems  to  keep  the  frosts  off  so  't  we  git  a  purty 
good  crop.  But  we  have  to  lug  everything  up — that's 
one  o'  Zury's  bright  idees.  When  we  git  a  new  house, 
though,  /  mean  to  have  a  word  to  say,  V  it  '11  be  down 
near  the  garden,  or  they'll  be  scenery  in  this  fambly,  I 
can  tell  ye !  I  dunno  's  the  new  house  '11  ever  show  up 
— we  come  'ere  with  a  four-thousand-dollar  blanket  on 
us,  V  we've  jes'  got  red  o'  it,  so  't  mebbe  we  might  fix 
a  decent  place  to  poke  our  heads  in  if  Zury  could  make 
up  'is  mind  to  stay  away  from  Denver.  Quit  strugglin' 
with  yer  food,  'Biathar !  He  goes  at  it  like  a  saw-mill. 
It's  a  outrage  on  yer  systum  to  eat  's  much  's  what  ye 
do,  anyway — that's  yer  fifth  slice  o'  bacon,  fer  I've  been 
countin'.  I'm  shore  nobody  ever  tried  harder  to  learn  a 
boy  decent  manners;  but  what's  the  good?  I  talk  V 
talk,  but  when  he  gits  to  the  table — well,  it  jes'  seems  to 
run  in  at  one  ear  'n'  out  at  the  other !" 

Little  by  little  it  was  revealed  that  Mr.  Irish  had  been 
to  Denver  regularly  once  in  every  four  years  since  their 
settlement  on  Cloud  Mountain.  He  had  just  returned 
from  his  third  trip,  and  it  was  inferred  from  his  own 
story  that  he  had  passed  the  time  pleasantly. 

"  Oh,  dad's  got  a  corner  on  all  the  fun  o'  this  fambly," 
cried  the  old  woman,  bitterly.  "  The  boys  'n'  me  hain't 
never  been  further  'n  Donhaly  City  sence  we  struck  the 
State.  Every  four  years !  If  I  could  do  that,  I'd  feel 
like  life  was  one  continerous  round  o'  joy." 

Mr.  Irish  took  these  complaints  quietly.  His  four 
years  at  home  were  the  Olympiad  between  Games.  The 


two  "boys"  said  but  little,  Abiathar  assenting  to  a  re- 
mark now  and  then  by  a  nod  and  a  grin.  When  Julius 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  slow,  soft  voice,  which  came  through 
his  nose  with  deliberation.  He  did  all  things  deliberate- 
ly. One  felt  in  his  most  casual  actions  a  large-minded 
seriousness,  which  was  the  result  of  forethought. 

But  this  evening  Julius  was  even  more  silent  than 
usual.  It  was  the  silence  of  attentive  observation.  His 
eyes  wandered  over  Emma  Webster's  face  and  hair. 
"  She  looks  tired,"  he  was  thinking.  "  She'd  be  pretty 
if  she  didn't  look  so  tired."  The  fire  stirred  and  crackled 
pleasantly.  The  shadows  danced  along  the  wall,  glan- 
cing sideways,  closing  together,  leaping  apart  in  ill- 
considered  estrangement.  Against  the  ceiling  above  the 
fireplace  they  were  quite  motionless,  clinging  close,  like 
swallows'  nests  under  the  eaves. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SUPPER  over,  Emma  Webster  cleared  off  the  table  and 
washed  the  dishes.  Julius  brought  forth  a  battered  Cot- 
tage Encyclopaedia,  a  fragment  from  the  Eastern  wreck 
of  other  days.  He  settled  himself  to  a  geological  ac- 
count of  the  extinction  of  undeveloped  forms  of  life. 
He  was  reading  the  book  through  for  the  fourth 
time,  and  was  always  glad  when  he  reached  anything 
of  a  geological  nature.  It  seemed  to  make  him  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  the  mountains  among  which  he 
lived. 

Mr.  Irish  smoked,  with  both  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
both  hands  grasping  his  stained  cob  pipe.  The  firelight 
lit  up  his  heavy,  cheerful  face,  and  emphasized  the 
smooth,  porcine  outline  of  cheek  and  jaw.  He  had  a 
persistent  physiognomy,  handed  down  from  generations 
of  Saxon  ancestors,  who  had  always  eaten  as  much  as 
they  could  hold,  and  never  been  troubled  by  a  misfit. 
Abiathar  stumbled  about  the  room  in  an  unmeaning 
way,  while  his  mother  continued  her  trade  of  admonition 
and  reproof. 

Once  on  her  way  to  the  cupboard  Emma  Webster 
paused  and  lifted  the  lily  bells,  whose  faces  drooped 
among  the  shadows  with  a  sort  of  proud  humility. 

"  Ye  like  posies  ?"  asked  Julius,  looking  up  from  his 
book.  His  gentle,  drawling  voice,  with  just  a  hint  of 
thickness,  was  strangely  in  contrast  with  his  alert  gaze, 


35 


which  was  sometimes  too  prolonged  and  wide-eyed  for 
comfort. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  half  timidly. 

"  So  do  I." 

It  was  nothing.  But  it  pleased  her  to  think  that  in 
this  grim  ranchman  there  should  exist  a  fondness  for 
beautiful,  useless  things. 

"  He  has  a  kind  heart  if  he  loves  flowers,"  she  said  to 
herself.  She  had  a  watchful  eye  for  those  acts  and  omis- 
sions which  constitute  a  man's  conduct,  and  stamp  him, 
from  the  exterior,  as  good  or  bad. 

When  the  dishes  were  done  she  sat  down  by  the  fire- 
place, opposite  the  old  woman,  and  folded  her  hands 
lightly  in  her  lap. 

"  I'll  clean  up  in  the  mornin',"  she  promised.  "  I 
reckon  I'm  more  tired  'n  what  I  thort  I  was.  It's  a 
long  walk,  though  I  enjoyed  every  step  o'  it.  But  I  be- 
gin to  feel  it  now." 

"A  good  night's  rest  '11  hearten  ye  up  wonderful," 
declared  the  old  woman.  "  'Biathar,  quit  jewkin'  yer 
head  down  'n'  gawpin'.  If  yer  dad  had  the  least  idee 
o'  doin'  his  dooty  by  ye,  he'd  give  ye  a  harness  to  mend, 
or  suthin'  to  make  ye  look  sensible.  That  boy  '11  be  the 
death  o'  me  yit,"  she  added,  turning  to  Emma  with  a 
shrill  accession  of  petulance.  "  What  d'ye  reckon  he's 
set  on  doin'  ?" 

"What  ye  goin'  to  tell  now?"  cried  Abiathar,  with 
voluble  indistinctness.  "Be  ye  goin'  to  tell  'er  that?'1'1 
— and  a  conscious  grin  suffused  his  pimples  clear  up 
to  his  eyes. 

His  mother  made  a  superior  gesture,  at  the  same 
time  turning  squarely  to  Emma. 


"  Ye  won't  be  here  long  afore  ye  know  Cynthy  Bean- 
ston,"  she  said.  "  She's  allus  a-hengin'  around  'Biathar. 
Well,  when  ye  see  'er  ye'll  think  the  Lord  was  jokin' 
when  he  made  'er.  'Biathar  V  her  make  a  hull  fool- 
house  when  they  git  together — V  a  big  'un,  too."  Here 
she  preserved  a  moment's  silence,  to  give  her  proclama- 
tion its  full  effect.  "'N'  he  wants  to  double  up  with 
'er !"  Then,  after  another  momentous  pause,  "  Think 
o1  bein'  gran'mother  to  their  young  'uns — think  o'  havin' 
'em  named  arter  ye !"  And  she  drew  herself  in  at  the 
waist  and  settled  back  in  her  chair,  as  a  sense  of  the  far- 
reaching  irony  of  maternity  broke  in  upon  her. 

Abiathar  still  grinned,  but  he  attempted  no  retort. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Irish,  removing  his  pipe  and  gazing 
about  him  with  the  air  of  Poseidon  calming  a  storm,  "  I 
dunno  's  'Biathar  could  do  better.  Ye  couldn't  expect  a 
smart  gal  to  have  'im." 

"  That's  so  !"  cried  Abiathar,  catching  at  the  reason 
joyfully.  "  A  smart  gal  wouldn't.  'N'  so  it's  Cynthy 
or  nobody !" 

"  Let  it  be  nobody,  then  !"  proclaimed  the  old  woman, 
with  battlesome  emphasis.  "  I  heerd  a  preacher  say 
wunst  't  every  man  kerries  his  own  hell  inside,  V  I 
know  I  do  mine.  'N'  I  don't  p'ose  to  have  one  outside, 
too!" 

"  I  could  go  V  live  with  the  Beanstons,"  said  Abia- 
thar. "  It  'ud  save  'em  a  hired  man." 

"  Don't  say  'nother  word  'bout  it !"  screeched  the  old 
woman.  "  What's  the  world  comin'  to  when  fools  mar- 
ry ?  Oh,  Lord,  Lord !" 

"  There,  there,  mother,"  said  Julius,  looking  up  from 
his  book.  His  trait  of  straightforward  seriousness  mani- 


37 


fested  itself  at  times  in  a  dignified  sonority  of  voice 
which  would  have  been  impressive  from  the  public  plat- 
form. Emma  noticed  how  the  mother  was  unconscious- 
ly controlled  by  its  intonation  of  calm  authority,  and 
changed  the  subject  of  conversation  immediately. 

"  Queer  't  ye  should  jes'  start  out  permisc'us  that 
way  fer  the  mountains,"  she  said  to  Emma.  "  Most 
gals  'ud  a-been  afeerd." 

"  I  wa'n't  afeerd,"  was  the  soft  answer.  "  I  was 
glad!" 

"  Glad  to  be  alone  in  the  mountains  !"  murmured 
Mrs.  Irish,  gazing  incredulously  around  the  family 
group.  "  Well,  I'll  be  flomcoddled  !  Glad  to  be  alone 
in  the — " 

A  suddenly  suffused  look  thrilled  the  stranger's  feat- 
ures with  something  like  an  ecstatic  pain. 

"  Ye'd  understan'  it  if — if  ye  knowed,"  she  said. 
She  was  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  nervously. 
"  I  reckon  I'm  dif'rent  from  most  wimmin,"  she  went 
on,  to  bridge  over  the  strained  silence.  She  had  a 
shrinking  sense  of  Julius's  piercing  eyes  staring  at  her 
from  above  his  book,  and  his  stiff,  dark  brows  meeting 
in  a  downward  point  above  his  nose. 

"  Ye  must  a-been  in  some  queer  sort  o'  scrape,"  vent- 
ured the  old  woman. 

Emma  Webster  was  silent. 

"  Well,  my  own  experience  o'  scrapes  is  't  they  make 
me  keep  my  eyes  open  arterwards.  A  man  't 's  been 
drownded  won't  try  the  river  a  secon'  time.  But " — here 
the  old  woman's  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her  philoso- 
phy— "  where  on  airth  'd  ye  come  from'  fust,  anyway  ?" 

Emma  Webster  answered,  promptly  : 


"  From  Illinoy." 

"She's  lyin'  ag'in,"  thought  Mrs.  Irish.  But  aloud 
she  said,  "We're  from  Illinoy  ourselves — down  Tich- 
borne  way.  Where  be  you  from  ?" 

"  Jacksonville." 

"  Never  heerd  o'  Jacksonville.     'D  you,  Zury  ?" 

"  It's  a  new  town,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  fluttered 
voice. 

"Oh!" 

Mrs.  Irish  was  silent  again,  peering  out  from  beneath 
her  beetling  brows.  "  Still  lyin',"  she  was  thinking. 
Ordinarily,  silence  in  the  face  of  such  an  opportunity 
would  have  been  impossible ;  she  would  have  flung  her 
suspicions  into  arguments,  rebukes,  open  accusations. 
Bat  with  this  stranger  it  was  different.  She  looked  so 
quiet,  so  gentle — and  so  weary.  Besides,  the  old  woman 
did  not  dare  to  face  the  conjectural  results  of  express- 
ing her  doubts.  The  girl  might  go,  and  then  what  would 
become  of  them  all  ?  These  conflicting  emotions  settled 
into  a  futile  criticism,  and  she  remained  silent,  thinking. 

"  I  reckon  some  trouble  must  a-druv  ye  'way  from 
home,"  she  remarked,  after  a  while. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  only  answer. 

She  was  fishing  in  barren  waters,  She  realized  the 
fact  with  a  helpless  surprise.  But  she  decided  on  her 
course  immediately. 

"  Ye  hear  that,  'Biathar  ?  They  ain't  to  be  no  pokin' 
V  pryin'  into  Emmy  Webster's  bizness  while  she  stays 
on  this  'ere  ranch !  No  matter  what  fetched  'er  here, 
she's  here ;  V  I'm  goin'  to  stan'  up  fer  'er,  'n'  anybody 
't  goes  to  worryih'  'er  '11  have  to  do  with  me.  'N'  Zury, 
ye're  not  to  git  funny  'n'  go  to  'cusin'  'er  o'  runnin'  away 


from  some  feller,  or  anything  o'  that  sort.  Ye're  to 
keep  yer  wooden-legged  wit  to  yerself,  'n'  then  nobody 
Ml  see  how  it  limps ;  'n'  if  it  tumbles  down,  nobody  '11 
be  hurt  by  it.  We  all  have  our  troubles,"  she  contin- 
ued. "  Look  at  Zury  'n'  'Biathar,  'n'  try  to  think  o'  the 
life  I've  led  !  Troubles  !  I  should  think  so.  They  ain't 
nothin  else  sure  in  this  world — excep'  the  taxes ;  oh,  ye 
kin  allus  reckon  on  troubles — they're  allus  here  !" 

"  The  Lord  sends  'em,"  replied  the  stranger,  prophetic 
subtleties  of  faith  lighting  up  her  saddened  eyes. 

"  I  dunno  who  sends  'em,"  was  the  grim  rejoinder. 
"  But  I  do  know  the  world's  full  o'  'em ;  'n'  if  /  had 
charge  o'  matters,  they'd  be  some  tall  house-cleanin' — I 
kin  tell  ye  that !  Well,  'tain't  no  good  to  waste  stren'th 
a  whinin',  no  ways.  I  reckon  ye'd  ruther  not  talk  over 
yer  troubles  'fore  strangers,  hey  ?" 

Emma  Webster  looked  up  with  a  sweet  and  grateful 
light  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  If  ye'd  be  willin' — "  she  began. 

"  Ye  hear  that,  'Biathar  ?  Ye're  not  to  tell  every  cow- 
puncher  on  the  range  't  she  happened  to  come  to  us 
kinder  cur'ous-like  —  though  I  make  no  doubt  ye'll  go 
a  -  rattletrappin'  it  all  over  the  Rocky  Mountains  till 
Cynthy  Beanston  hears  it,  'n'  she'll  go  a-squallin'  'n' 
bellerin'  it  up  'n'  down  every  gulch  'n'  foot-hill  in  fifty 
mile.  As  fer  Julius,  he  knows  how  to  behave  hisself 
'thout  bein'  told.  He  takes  arter  the  Robertsons.  I 
was  a  Robertson,"  she  added,  in  explanation  to  the 
stranger. 

"  I'm  sure  I'll  like  it  'ere,"  said  the  latter.  "  I'll  try 
to  do  my  duty.  I  want  to  do  what's  right.  'N'  I  ain't 
afcerd  o'  work." 


40 


« That's  the  kind  o'  talk !"  cried  Mrs.  Irish,  approv- 
ingly. "  Ye'll  have  time  'nough  to  lay  idle  when  ye  git 
old  'n'  doubled  up  with  rheumatics.  But  I  know  ye're 
tired  'n'  want  to  go  to  bed.  What  time  is  it,  Julius  ?" 

"  Quarter  past  nine,"  was  the  answer  from  behind  the 
book. 

"  Too  fast,"  declared  the  old  woman.  "  Julius  's  got 
a  watch  't  makes  time  fly.  But  it's  time  fer  bed,  any- 
way. I  don't  go  to  bed  't  all  these  days — I  set  up  in 
this  'ere  chair  'n'  sleep  when  I  kin,  'n'  jaw  away  to  my- 
self when  I  can't.  'Biathar,  quit  yer  toodlin'  'n'  tippin' 
aroun'  the  cubbard  there,  'n'  git  a  fresh  candle  fer 
Emmy.  I  hope  ye  won't  mind  settin'  it  in  a  teacup — we 
ain't  got  but  one  candlestick  to  our  backs,  'n'  we  have 
to  git  along  with  any  sort  o'  contraption  't  comes  handy. 
Ye  mus'  try  not  to  git  disgusted  with  'Biathar — he's  allus 
smirkin'  'n'  smewkin'  at  the  gals.  There,  that's  right! 
knock  down  yer  hat  off  'm  the  nail,  'n'  tromple  all  over 
it.  Oh,  ye're  yer  mother's  beauty  —  you  are  !  'D  ye 
ever  see  sech  sized  hats  's  what  that  boy  gits  ?  —  big 
'nough  to  bury  'im  in,  'n'  plenty  o'  room  left  over.  Look 
at  'im!  don't  he  look  jest  'bout  's  knowin'  's  a  sow-bug 
under  a  board?  If  I  was  well  'n'  he  was  smaller, 
wouldn't  I  wallicks  'im  ?  There —  Julius,  you  show  'er 
the  way.  If  the  bed  ain't  made  up,  'tain't  my  fault. 
Now  go  to  bed,  'n'  don't  let  'Biathar's  actions  give  ye 
the  nightmare !" 

"  How  early  shall  I  git  up  ?"  inquired  Emma  Web- 
ster. 

"  Oh,  I'll  yell  fer  ye  when  it's  time.  I'm  allus  awake," 
replied  the  grim  old  woman. 

"  If  ye  want  anything  in  the  night,  be  sure  'n'  call  me. 


41 


I'd  be  glad  to  git  up  V  wait  on  ye.  It  seems  so  good 
to  have — a  home  !" 

The  old  woman's  face  quivered  with  some  unwonted 
emotion. 

" 'Biathar,"  she  cried,  ''don't  stan'  there  a-gawkin' 
with  yer  under-jaw  hangin'  down  to  yer  hips — spread 
out  the  wick  o'  the  candle  so  't  a  body  can  see  the  blaze. 
Thankee.  I  don't  gen'rally  need  nothin' — Julius  sets  the 
campfire  V  a  cup  o*  water  on  a  chair  next  me,  V  I  kin 
help  myself.  Now,  Julius,  go  on.  Good-night !" 

Emma  Webster  returned  her  greeting,  and  followed 
Julius  through  a  dusty  little  room — Mrs.  Irish's  parlor — 
containing  a  braided  mat,  two  or  three  battered  chairs, 
and  a  table  with  a  turkey-red  cover.  From  this  opened 
the  room  which  had  been  assigned  to  her  use. 

Julius  set  down  the  teacup  and  candle  on  a  nail-keg 
inside  the  door. 

"  I  hope  ye'll  like  mother/'  he  said,  with  his  soft,  de- 
liberate drawl.  "  I  never  seen  'er  so  took  with  a  stranger 
afore.  'N'  ye  mus'  try  not  to  mind  'er  jawin'.  She's 
had  a"  hard  life,  mother  has,  V  she's  been  too  much 
'thout  wimmin.  Ye'll  do  *er  a  power  o'  good  if  ye  can 
like  'er  'n'  not  mind  'er  snappy  ways." 

Emma  met  his  smile  with  a  placid  gentleness. 

"  I  sha'n't  mind  'er  scolding  the  least  bit,"  she  said. 
"  What  I  want  's  a  home ;  if  I'm  sure  o'  that,  nothin' 
can  trouble  me." 

"  We'll  be  good  to  ye,"  said  Julius,  with  that  digni- 
fied seriousness  which  had  impressed  her  from  the  first. 
"  Good-night !" 

"  Good-night,"  she  answered.     And  he  was  gone. 

lie  went  back  to  the  Cottage  Encyclopedia,  and  tried 


to  interest  himself  in  the  colorless  wording  of  the  text. 
lie  read  that  gum-arabic  comes  from  the  sont  or  acantha- 
tree. — Would  her  eyes  look  darker  after  a  good  night's 
rest,  and  would  the  tremulous  tendency  about  her  mouth 
express  a  more  settled  obedience  to  her  will  ? — It  is  also 
produced  by  the  seyal-tree,  and  large  quantities  of  it  are 
exported  from  Egypt.  At  this  point  Julius  gave  him- 
self a  surprised  glance  of  introspection ;  then  laid  aside 
the  book  deliberately,  and  went  to  bed. 

His  kindly,  masterful  face  had  left  an  impression  on 
Emma  Webster's  thoughts  as  of  something  which  would 
influence  her  immediate  future.  There  is  a  sort  of 
strength  which  involuntarily  projects  itself  beyond  the 
narrow  horizon  of  self,  and  makes  a  climate  of  con- 
fidence and  ease  for  less  masterful  souls.  "  He  can 
help  me,  if  I  need  it,"  she  thought,  with  an  irresistible 
joy. 

The  feeling  gave  her  a  momentary  pang.  "  I  ortn't  to 
be  happy — I  orter  be  bowed  down  with  the  thort  o'  what 
brought  me  here.  But  I  can't — I  can't  be  to-night.  'N' 
ain't  it  a  sign  't  God  has  fergive  me,  the  way  He's  took 
care  o'  me  all  the  way  'long?" 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  at  the  moun- 
tains and  the  solemn  stars.  A  bank  of  white  cloud  lay 
inertly  along  the  ridge ;  the  pines  gave  forth  an  inter- 
mittent song.  The  light  was  like  sunshine  dimmed  by 
smoky  windows ;  the  white  peaks  looked  big  with  mys- 
tery, like  Time's  scroll  rolled  up. 

"  God  has  been  good  to  me  this  day,"  she  said,  still 
gazing.  "  What  more  could  I  ask  'n  this  ?  Let  me  be 
thankful— let  me  be  truly  thankful,  O  Lord !" 

She  untied  her  bundle,  and  drew  out  a  little  worn  Bible 


43 


with  a  tarnished  brass  clasp.  Opening  at  random  in  the 
Psalms,  she  read : 

" '  I  waited  patiently  for  the  Lord ;  and  he  inclined 
unto  me  and  heard  my  cry. 

"  «  He  brought  me  up  also  out  of  a  horrible  pit,  out  of 
the  miry  clay,  and  set  my  feet  upon  a  rock,  and  estab- 
lished my  goings. 

" '  And  he  hath  put  a  new  song  into  mv  mouth,  even 
praise  unto  our  God.  .  .  . 

"'I  am  poor  and  needy  ;  yet  the  Lord  thinketh  upon 
me :  thou  art  my  help  and  my  deliverer ;  make  no  tarry- 
ing, O  my  God.'  " 

She  turned  to  her  bed  with  a  smiling  weariness. 

"  I  am  in  His  hands  reely — reely  !"  she  said,  aloud. 
"  He  keers  fer  me,  He  has  not  fersaken  me,  fer  all  my 
sin !" 

She  knelt,  bowing  her  head  upon  her  hands  against 
the  bed.  Then  she  crept  in  between  the  coarse  cover- 
ings with  a  sigh  of  utter  rest.  How  pleasantly  the  dark- 
ness filled  the  room ! — so  soothing,  so  comforting,  so 
safe.  She  turned  so  that  she  faced  the  window  and  the 
big,  pure  stars.  "  They  arc  the  lights  of  the  distant  city 
of  my  God,"  was  her  last  thought ;  and  the  night  closed 
her  tired  eyes  as  tenderly  as  if  for  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  V 

EMMA  WEBSTER  awoke  before  daybreak,  and  lay  a 
long  time  gazing  out  into  the  thick,  motionless  air.  It 
looked  like  a  gray  solid  thrust  up  against  the  window. 

"  It's  actual  clouds,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  How  queer 
't  I  should  be  layin'  a-bed  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  among 
the  clouds !" 

There  were  mysterious  sounds  abroad  —  sounds  so 
faint  that  they  seemed  to  originate  in  her  own  strained 
sense  of  hearing.  Soft  murmurs,  condensing  from  the 
air  like  dew ;  remote  sighs  and  whispers ;  plaintive  mi- 
nor harmonies,  like  the  incantations  of  restless  spirits. 
It  was  as  if  the  rocks  and  the  trees  and  the  clouds  were 
talking  together. 

She  lay  back,  closing  her  eyes  with  a  vacant  enjoy- 
ment. "  My  work  'n'  care  shall  be  fer  these  people  here- 
after," she  thought.  "  I  b'long  to  'em,  fer  they  found 
me."  Her  thoughts  wandered  vaguely.  She  remembered 
long-forgotten  sentences,  meaningless  words.  Suddenly 
a  passage  from  the,  Old  Testament  came  into  her  mind : 
"  All  that  are  able  to  go  forth  to  war  in  Israel."  She 
seized  upon  it,  and  repeated  it  with  joy.  "  It  means  't 
my  work  is  here,  't  I've  found  what  the  Lord  wants  me 
to  do !" 

She  opened  her  eyes.  The  light  had  grown  till  now 
she  could  see  the  ghostly  companies  of  clouds  standing 
motionless  in  line  along  the  foot-hills.  They  looked 


hard,  inelastic,  presenting  unfrayed  edges  to  the  slopes. 
The  air  lay  passive,  as  if  under  a  weight ;  the  world 
looked  chilly  and  stiff  after  its  long  night's  sleep.  The 
invsterious  sounds  in  the  upper  air»had  ceased,  but  the 
silence  stirred  in  the  gulches,  whence  rose  the  noise  of 
shouting  waters  and  the  harmonious  sibilance  of  spray 
tossed  high  against  impeding  rocks.  As  an  overtone  to 
this  wild  symphony  could  be  heard  the  tinkling  of  the 
fountain,  overflowing  its  basin  back  of  the  house,  and 
dancing  unseen  past  the  window  with  a  childish  babble 
of  inconsequent  sound. 

The  light  increased,  breaking  up  against  the  mists  in 
billows  of  dull  gray.  The  clouds  projected  here  and 
there  in  faint  high-lights,  or  receded  in  irregular  con- 
caves of  gray  gloom.  Emma  rose  and  looked  out.  The 
surroundings  of  the  house  were  dimly  visible — a  vacant 
stretch  of  adobe  on  a  hill,  sloping  up  to  a  background  of 
slippery  gray  rocks.  A  few  dwarf  sunflowers  grew  along 
the  slope,  pitiful  in  their  meagre  yellow  and  brown,  but 
sweet  in  their  intent  to  make  the  gray  soil  brighter.  The 
lowing  of  a  heifer  in  one  of  the  thatched  sheds  awoke 
sluggish  echoes  from  the  gulches.  The  pines  tuned 
their  strings  timidly  for  a  time ;  then,  gaining  confidence, 
burst  into  a  slow,  mighty  chant  of  praise.  Surely  this 
was  something  more  than  the  wind  among  the  pines, 
this  heavenward  rush  of  harmony,  this  long-drawn  lyric 
wail  from  the  heights — it  was  the  soul  of  Milton,  re- 
turned to  brood  in  music  over  the  world.  The  sympho- 
ny swelled,  died  away,  drew  out  Memnon-like  echoes  from 
the  rocks,  fluttered  and  revived  in  intermingling  throbs 
and  murmurs. 

The  sunflowers  stirred  uneasily,  feeling  the  near  pres- 


46 


ence  of  the  day.  The  sounds  from  the  gulches  grew 
hurried  and  eager,  shaking  the  air  with  a  rhythmic  fury 
and  radiating  sentient  tremors  through  the  shadows. 
The  world  seemed  on  the  point  of  stirring  and  opening 
its  eves ;  the  mists  thinned  out  as  if  to  leave  its  gaze  un- 
hindered. It  was  a  moment  of  mystery,  of  suspension ; 
the  creative  Idea  was  growing  and  unfolding  in  this  up- 
per chaos.  Would  it  really  take  form  so  that  the  human 
sense  could  grasp  it  ?  One  felt  it  beyond  the  mist  there, 
something  sublime,  mighty,  permanent,  altogether  differ- 
ent from  the  chance-evoked  visions  of  the  imagination. 
But  the  clouds,  thinning  out,  revealed  only  the  size  of 
near  things  —  the  thatched  sheds,  the  corral  with  its 
snubbing-post,  the  spring  pouring  its  babbling  waters 
down  the  rocks. 

The  sunrise  crept  into  the  mists  with  red  quiverings, 
luminous  thrills.  The  clouds  shrank  farther  back ;  they 
moved  upward,  dragging  close  to  the  rocks,  like  a  huge 
weighted-  curtain ;  then  an  expanding  wind  came  up 
from  the  river  valley ;  it  passed  the  house  with  a  musi- 
cal rush.  The  clouds  rolled  still  upward ;  they  lapped 
the  foot-hills  in  sluggish  surges,  and  finally  ebbed  in  a 
shallow  pink  ripple.  Then  the  Idea  was  made  visible  in 
the  sunshine  which  struck  lance-like  across  the  world: 
the  mountains,  awful  in  their  magnitude  and  simplicity, 
white  as  death,  stern  as  conscience.  Emma  Webster 
gazed  up  at  them  with  a  high,  religious  awe. 

She  understood  them  at  once.  Her  soul  went  out  to 
them  in  an  all-embracing  mood  of  reverence.  They  were 
the  earthly  expression  of  God's  grandeur  and  power — the 
material  into  which  He  had  crystallized  His  thoughts  so 
as  to  be  understood  of  men. 


47 


She  knelt  and  prayed.  She  did  not  close  her  eyes — 
there  were  no  trifling  things  to  be  shut  out — but  fixed 
her  gaze  upon  the  mountains.  In  their  immemorial  calm, 
they  too  seemed  engaged  in  silent  prayer ;  in  their  prox- 
imity to  heaven,  they  were  like  the  archangels,  the  friends 
and  companions  of  God.  One  cannot  connect  the  idea 
of  time  with  them ;  the  ages  have  left  no  more  trace  on 
them  than  autumn  leaves  which  fall  and  are  blown  away. 
They  have  the  look  of  self-existence,  of  eternity  about 
them. 

Emma  Webster  stood  up,  strong  and  joyous  in  the  as- 
surance of  God's  loving-kindness  all  about  her.  What- 
ever this  woman's  life  had  been,  her  religion  was  no  mere 
drowsy  stirring  of  the  blood,  no  half-hearted,  conditional 
faith,  no  haggling  across  the  counter  of  Infinity  for  the 
good  things  of  life ;  but  a  silent  confidence  in  the  crea- 
tive goodness,  as  certain  as  the  sweet,  secure  sense  of  a 
cloudless  sky  above  her  head — a  meek,  filial  obedience,  un- 
marked in  its  development  like  the  passing  of  time,  yet 
including  the  whole  divine  mystery  of  spiritual  growth. 
God  was  her  father,  loving  even  while  He  chastened  fyer ; 
and  her  answering  love  was  perfect — a  veritable  "  offer- 
ing made  by  fire." 

She  worked  hard  that  day.  Abiathar  and  his  mother 
puzzled  her.  She  frequently  gazed  at  them  in  doubt. 
But  whenever  she  passed  the  window,  she  looked  out  at 
the  mountains.  They  reassured  her.  They  were  wrapped 
in  none  of  that  mysterious  gloom  in  which  living  souls 
are  hidden ;  the  changes  which  crossed  them  were  free 
from  the  doubts  engendered  by  changes  in  human  feat- 
ures. 

She  forgot  herself  in  her  tasks.     The  world  seemed 


48 


docile  and  friendly;  her  future  lay  plainly  before  her,  no 
longer  a  destiny  ruled  by  unrulable  forces.  "  It  is  all 
good,  all  for  the  best,"  was  her  constant  thought. 

While  the  clothes  were  boiling  in  the  huge  brass  kettle 
she  made  preparations  for  the  baking. 

"  If  ye  was  to  put 's  much  risin'  in  's  what  ye  do  back 
there  in  Illinoy,  ye'd  have  every  stone  blowed  out  o'  the 
oven  when  ye  come  to  bake  it,"  proclaimed  the  old  wom- 
an from  her  chair. 

Emma  looked  up  in  wonder  from  her  task  of  measur- 
ing the  flour. 

"  Oh,  they  ain't  no  reason  to  it,"  said  the  old  woman, 
anticipating  her  question.  "  It's  all  o'  a  piece  with  the 
nat'ral-born  cussedness  o'  the  country.  Ye  never  kin  tell 
what  things  is  goin'  to  do  in  Collyraydo — I've  seen  a  hull 
mountain-side  jes'  nachelly  git  up  'n'  walk  off  'thout  say- 
in'  a  word  to  nobody — I  have,  sure  's  shootin'.  Oh,  they 
ain't  nothin'  on  airth  more  active  'n  the  Rocky  Mountains 
when  they  wunst  git  started.  Down  b'low  Donhaly  City 
the  passengers  has  to  git  out  'n'  shovel  Collyraydo  scen- 
ery off  'm  the  track  'most  every  time  a  train  passes.  'N' 
as  fer  the  folks  in  this  country — well,  I  useter  b'lieve 
they  wa'n't  no  redemption  from  the  infernal  regions,  but 
I've  give  up  that  idee  long  ago !" 

She  directed  and  admonished  Abiathar  as  he  brought 
the  rinsing  water  and  helped  to  wring  out  the  clothes. 
"  Snooch !"  she  cried.  "  Shagdandy  !  mox  !  quit  lally- 
gaggin'  at  Emmy  'n'  jumpin'  aroun'  like  a  tin  cow — come, 
slant  out  o'  this  'n'  fix  the  clo'es-line !"  After  these  ob- 
jurgatory spurts  Abiathar  tried  to  look  sensible,  drawing 
down  his  heavy  chops  in  acknowledgment  of  the  moral- 
ities with  which  it  was  supposed  he  was  becoming  inoc- 


ulated.  As  the  reader  will  have  divined,  Mrs.  Irish  had 
a  faculty  for  coining  words  which  Linnams  himself  might 
have  envied.  She  had  invented  an  entirely  new  nomen- 
clature for  reprobation  and  blame.  Emma  understood  it 
with  difficulty,  but  she  watched  its  effect  on  Abiathar 
with  interest.  He  had  a  joy-compelling  power  of  mak- 
ing the  best  of  circumstances  such  as  no  philosopher  ever 
possessed,  and  arose  serene  and  smiling  after  blows  which 
would  have  prostrated  ordinary  mortals. 

Julius  was  not  at  home  that  day.  After  breakfast  he 
set  out  in  search  of  two  steers  which  he  had  missed  the 
day  before.  Mr.  Irish  rode  over  to  Barb  Wire  Ranch  to 
make  a  trade  for  the  use  of  Beanston's  mowing-machine, 
the  oats  being  ready  for  harvest  in  the  Back  Canon. 
He  expressed  himself  as  willing  to  give  a  "  yearlin'  "  for 
the  use  of  the  machine.  This  mountain  civilization 
was  as  primitive  in  some  ways  as  that  of  the  Aryans, 
where  wealth  was  reckoned  in  cows,  and  "  cows  were 
the  circulating  medium,  with  sheep  and  pigs  for  small 
change." 

A  week  passed.  Julius  was  absent  most  of  the  time 
on  the  range,  looking  after  his  herds. 

"  I'm  shore  I  don't  see  what  good  'tis  fer  'im  to  work 
so  hard,"  complained  the  old  woman.  "  He  won't  never 
be  wuth  nothin'  till  he  goes  back  to  God's  country  'n' 
farms  it  like  a  Christian.  If  Zury — 'd  I  ever  tell  ye  his 
hull  name  's  Zurishaddai,  from  the  Bible? — well,  if  he'd 
a-stuck  to  bizness  like  what  Julius  has,  they  might  be 
some  prospecks  o'  our  endin'  up  our  days  outside  o'  the 
pore-house.  I've  tried  more  'n  wunst  to  git  Julius  jes'  to 
set  down  'n'  let  things  go,  but  he  says  he  has  great  faith  in 
hard  work !  Hard  work !  If  that  meant  anything,  I'd  be 


50 

rollin'  in  di'mon's  this  day,  V  my  hair  done  up  in  a  French 
twist  down  to  Denver.  But  I  know  'taint  no  use  kickin' 
— oh  yes,  I've  lived  long  'nough  fer  that.  I  'member  the 
race-track  back  there  to  the  county  fair  in  Illinoy.  Well, 
life  's  jes'  like  that,  'n'  we're  the  hosses.  Them  pore 
critters ! — lashed  on,  heat  arter  heat ;  'n'  if  they  failed 
they  got  a  kick  in  the  ribs ;  if  they  come  out  ahead,  they 
was  sold  to  the  highest  bidder.  'N'  it's  jes'  so  with  the 
workin'  people  o'  this  world.  Oh,  I'm  out  o'  conceit  o' 
life — I've  seen  too  much  o'  it.  If  anybody  but  the  Lord 
'd  'ranged  it,  ye'd  hear  a  turble  howlin' ;  but  as  'tis,  'pears 
like  everybody  feels  boun'  to  stick  up  't  everything  's  all 
right,  'n'  it's  our  own  fault  if  things  ain't  the  way  we 
want  'em.  Ye  'low  I'm  a  wicked  ole  critter  to  talk  so, 
don't  ye  ?  Well,  I  useter  be  a  purty  good  Christian  my- 
self afore  the  Lord  got  down  on  me,  'n'  even  arter  that 
I  useter  pray  't  my  faith  might  overtop  my  reason ;  but 
now  I  think  what  I  like,  'n'  speak  right  up  in  meetin'  if  I 
feel  like  it.  'N'  if  the  Lord  don't  find  it  agribble,  He 
needn't  listen.  I  don't  'pose  to  go  a-tiptoein'  through 
life,  afeerd  o'  disturbin'  Him.  He  don't  take  me  into 
'count  when  He  does  disagribble  things." 

Emma  Webster  grew  accustomed  to  the  old  woman's 
complexly  querulous  nature;  she  even  learned  to  over- 
look her  profanity.  "  She's  had  a  hard  life,"  was  the 
young  woman's  excuse,  in  Julius's  own  words.  "  My 
duty's  to  be  good  t'  'er,  'n'  keep  still." 

She  found  herself  watching  Julius  with  a  peculiar  in- 
terest. He  often  addressed  her  in  that  grave,  measured 
voice  which  impressed  her  with  a  sense  of  reserved  pow- 
er, and  she  answered  him  as  gravely,  glad  that  he  ap- 
proved of  her,  but  a  trifle  awed.  She  was  somewhat 


51 


afraid  of  his  learning.  She  had  stolen  a  look  into  the 
Cottage  Encyclopaedia  now  and  then,  just  to  see  what  it 
was  that  interested  him  so,  and  had  been  impressed  with 
the  uncompromising  dryness  of  the  text.  Once  she  had 
timidly  expressed  her  admiration  for  his  scholarly  tastes, 
and  he  had  answered  her  in  a  figure  of  speech  to  the  effect 
that  one  can  fill  a  cup  at  the  well  without  trouble,  but  the 
human  mind  is  a  different  sort  of  vessel. 

She  studied  him,  spelling  out  in  his  features  the  com- 
plicated sentences  which  stood  for  character.  He  had  a 
long,  thin  face,  well  colored  with  healthy  red  and  tan,  and 
showing  in  outline  a  pronounced  jaw,  a  high  check-bone, 
and  a  sharp,  alert  chin.  His  long  nose  divided  into  large 
nostrils,  and  his  stiff,  dark  hair  had  a  will  and  purpose  of 
its  own.  His  mild  eyes  looked  out  with  a  slow  but  ear- 
nest appreciation  of  the  meaning  of  things,  and  when  he 
smiled  Emma  felt  as  if  he  had  taken  her  into  his  confi- 
dence. The  peculiarity  of  his  smile  was  a  slow  falling 
of  the  under-lip  and  a  squaring  of  the  corners  of  the 
mouth,  indicating  a  sort  of  stubborn  gentleness.  His 
face  had  a  singular  power  of  reflecting  his  thoughts  into 
the  minds  of  others.  Emma  found  herself  understand- 
ing without  words  his  broad,  frank,  silent  nature.  At 
times  his  eyes  had  a  look  of  withdrawal,  and  when  re- 
called, slowly  assumed  an  expression  of  interest  in  near 
objects. 

He  had  thought  a  good  deal,  and  his  utterances  had 
the  dignity  of  premeditation.  He  was  not  orthodox  in 
religious  matters — had  deliberately  taken  his  small  part 
in  the  struggle  of  human  nature  against  theories  and  dog- 
mas, and  had  emerged  from  it  with  a  rather  lofty  con- 
sciousness of  the  ulterior  benefits  of  goodness,  considered 


52 

apart  from  the  present  enjoyments  of  a  good  man.  He 
had  a  high  idea  of  a  man's  duties  and  of  the  soul's  place 
in  the  plan  of  the  universe.  The  ideas  of  life  and  labor 
were  closely  connected  in  his  mind,  and  the  result  was  a 
man  who  could  fight  and  suffer,  work  and  conquer,  with 
a  self-control  of  which  emotional  natures  only  dream. 
His  responsibilities  were  to  God  as  manifested  in  man. 
He  never  prayed,  but  in  the  course  of  a  week  he  lived  the 
answers  to  a  great  many  prayers. 

In  these  days,  when  the  careful  and  varied  discipline 
of  home  and  school  results  so  frequently  in  a  pale  dilu- 
tion of  man,  it  is  interesting  to  notice  what  nature  and 
hard  living  do  for  such  as  Julius  Irish.  Perhaps  the 
time  will  come  (since  classical  academies  are  daily  turning 
out  poor  scholars)  when  another  paradox  will  become  man- 
ifest— namely,  that  nature  alone  works  out  in  man  his 
potential  maximum  of  sensibility.  And  it  may  be,  after 
all,  that  the  essential  difference  between  an  educated  man 
and  an  ignorant  one  comes  to  be  the  difference  between 
a  Roman  circus  and  Barnum's — one  is  classical  and  the 
other  isn't. 

Emma  Webster  learned  to  admire  Julius's  honesty,  his 
uprightness,  his  manly  independence  of  action.  She 
even  comprehended  and  respected  his  conception  of  God 
as  Law  in  distinction  from  her  own  idea  of  a  personal 
deity.  And  on  his  side  he  understood  her  mystic  faith 
as  precisely  that  part  of  the  truth  required  for  the  com- 
pletion of  her  gentle  womanhood.  The  opinions  of  each 
were  based  on  lofty  human  cravings,  and  each  became  re- 
spectfully tolerant  of  the  other's  views,  though  more  than 
once  Julius  disturbed  her  patient  trust  by  pushing  her 
theories  to  their  legitimate  results.  His  logic  shocked 


53 


her  more  than  the  old  woman's  profanity,  for  the  latter 
was  the  result  of  blindness  and  the  former  of  insight. 

They  talked  of  many  things.  One  day  they  were  dis- 
cussing the  importance  of  faith  in  the  plan  of  salvation. 
Emma  had  been  speaking  in  that  tone  of  tranquil  rever- 
ence which  seemed  the  fitting  accompaniment  of  devout 
thoughts,  when  Julius  broke  in  abruptly  : 

"  Yes,  yes,  when  I  find  a  human  bein'  with  faith  strong 
'nough  to  move  mountains,  I  won't  say  nothin'  agin  its 
bein'  strong  'nough  to  take  a  man  to  heaven.  But  till 
then  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  go  on  doubtin'."  Emma  was 
silent,  grieved  by  the  materiality  of  his  tests. 

Their  acquaintance  grew  in  these  discussions.  Each 
found  something  to  disapprove  of  in  the  opinions  of  the 
other,  but  softened  his  disapprobation  by  considerations 
with  which  opinion  had  little  to  do. 

Once  they  were  talking  of  the  Judgment  Day. 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  that's  a  long  way  off,"  said  Julius,  with 
his  slow  smile. 

But  Emma  cited  Scripture  to  prove  that  the  end  of 
all  things  might  come  to-morrow — nay,  this  very  hour. 
Julius  still  smiled. 

"  It  took  the  Lord  a  long  time  to  make  this  'ere 
airth,"  he  said,  glancing  along  the  horizon  at  the  moun- 
tains and  finally  resting  his  eyes  upon  her  face.  "  Sure- 
ly, He'll  give  's  much  time  to  the  race  for  the  betterin' 
o'  their  souls  's  what  He  give  to  the  place  for  'em  to 
live  in !" 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Irish  smoked  his  pipe  regularly  be- 
fore the  fireplace,  and  accepted  without  comment  his 
wife's  disapproval  of  him  as  an  exponent  of  elegant  leis- 
ure. Abiathar  played  solitaire,  and  Julius,  through  the 


medium  of  the  Cottage  Encyclopaedia,  travelled  far  in  a 
world  of  wonders.  Mrs.  Irish  often  glanced  from  him  to 
Emma  with  an  understanding  nod,  as  who  would  say, 
"  There's  a  Robertson  f er  ye — he  takes  arter  my  folks  !" 
He  was  in  truth  the  apple  of  her  eye.  She  complained 
only  of  his  good  qualities,  on  the  ground  that  they  could 
bear  no  fruit  in  Colorado.  "  It's  the  devil  't  allus  comes 
out  on  top  in  Collyraydo,"  was  her  constant  refrain. 

Emma  Webster,  too,  she  treated  with  all  possible  con- 
sideration, "If  I'd  a-knowed  ye  back  in  Illinoy,"  she 
once  said,  "  I'd  a^swore  ye  was  a  Robertson  yerself.  I'm 
glad  ye  ain't,  though,"  she  added,  with  a  peculiar  glance 
at  Julius. 

She  was  in  constant  fear  that  the  young  woman  would 
overwork  herself,  and  she  habitually  brought  up  the  sub- 
ject at  meals. 

"  Ye  mus'  be  tired  to  death,"  she  once  said ;  "  ye've 
been  on  the  keen  jump  ever  sence  yer  sot  foot  in  the 
house ;  V  yit  ye  go  roun'  smilin'  to  yerself  like  ye  was 
havin'  a  good  time,  'Biathar,  don't  swiggle  so  when  ye 
drink.  It  gives  me  the  creeps  jes'  to  hear  ye.  How  ye 
manage  to  do  it  I'm  shore  I  can't  see.  /couldn't  a-done 
it  in  my  bes'  days." 

"  I'm  happy,"  said  Emma  Webster,  who  had  learned 
to  distinguish  between  the  conversation  intended  for  her- 
self and  Abiathar. 

The  old  woman  stirred  her  black  coffee  meditatively. 

"  Well,  I'm  shore  I'm  glad  o'  it,  though  I  don't  see 
why.  Dad's  the  only  happy  bein'  I've  ever  seen  in  these 
parts,  jest  arter  he's  been  down  to  Denver  V  loaded  up, 
or  when  he's  a-gittin'  ready  to  go.  'Biathar,  quit  yer 
snoochin'  aroun'  that  salt -cellar  fer  the  Ian'  sake,  V 


55 


shove  me  the  butter.  I  might  set  'ere  with  my  tongue 
a-lollin'  out  o'  my  mouth  fer  butter  'n'  you'd  never  see." 

"  I  hope  Emmy  '11  keep  on  bein'  happy,"  said  Julius, 
with  his  grave,  drawling  utterance.  His  eye  caught  hers, 
but  her  glance  swerved  aside,  and  she  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  confusion. 

One  day  Cynthy  Beanston  made  them  a  visit.  She 
came  in  with  the  stately  calm  of  a  browsing  elephant, 
and  slid  into  a  chair  like  a  ton  of  coal.  She  had  a  short 
body,  long  arms,  and  what  Mrs.  Irish  called  a  waist  of 
the  raw  material.  Her  heavy,  prognathous  face  was  in 
harmony  with  her  teeth,  which  came  together  at  an  acute 
angle.  There  was  a  fuzzy  zone  around  her  "bob"  of 
party-colored  hair,  showing  that  she  had  not  combed  it 
throughout  its  entire  length,  but  only  from  the  parting 
to  the  back  of  her  ears.  She  said  little  or  nothing,  but 
sat  with  her  knees  crossed,  staring  alternately  at  Mrs. 
Irish  and  Emma  as  they  talked,  and  emitting  an  occa- 
sional sighing  grunt  of  comprehension.  She  was  the 
target  of  more  than  one  of  Mrs.  Irish's  didactic  rebukes 
that  afternoon.  The  old  woman's  tongue  was  sharp,  and 
she  made  it  cut,  not  like  a  sword,  but  like  a  hatchet — not 
always  in  the  right  place,  but  always  with  the  destructive 
effect  of  strong  purpose.  Cynthy  sat  unmoved  through 
it  all.  She  was  as  much  of  a  philosopher  as  Abiathar 
in  the  sense  that  she  never  made  ill-treatment  a  basis  of 
disfavor  or  retaliation. 

Abiathar  came  in  for  his  share  of  notice,  too. 

"  To  think,"  cried  the  old  woman,  breaking  in  upon 
the  boy's  wild  efforts  to  impress  his  visitor — "  to  think 
how  his  gran'mother  back  there  in  Illinoy  useter  foretell 
what  a  fine  man  he'd  grow  into — 'n'  look  at  'im  now  !  I 


56 


'member  time  V  agin  how  she'd  set  by  the  east  winder 
overlookin'  the  barn  V  watch  'im  playin'  round  the  hay- 
stacks. 'That  blessed  boy!'  says  she.  <Jes'  look  at 
'im  !  They  ain't  'nother  sech  a  child  in  the  county,'  says 
she." 

"  Well,  ye  kin  bet  yer  life,  granny  knowed  a  good 
thing  when  she  seen  it,"  declared  Abiathar  with  assur- 
ance, rising  to  the  occasion. 

In  a  short  time  Emma  became  altogether  at  home  in 
her  new  surroundings.  Sometimes  she  would  sing  in  a 
voice  of  sweet,  subdued  shrillness  as  she  went  about  her 
work.  It  was  plain  that  she  never  affected  happiness, 
that  she  was  always  sincere  to  her  mental  state ;  and 
Mrs.  Irish  listened  and  watched,  absorbing  something  of 
the  young  woman's  joyous  content. 

Emma  had  a  heroic  simplicity  of  character  which 
craved  nothing  better  than  work. 

"  I  was  made  fer  it,"  she  once  said.  "  See  !  my  feet 
is  big  V  bony  to  carry  me  aroun'  to  my  work,  V  my 
han's  is  strong  to  do  it  when  I  come  face  to  face  with 
it.  My  hull  make-up  shows  what  the  Lord  meant  me 
fer.  Why  should  I  want  to  rest  ?" 

And  the  old  woman's  face  suffused  with  an  affection- 
ate admiration  for  this  brave  young  creature's  unselfish- 
ness and  buoyancy  of  heart. 

"  Some  folks  is  happy  one  way  'n'  some  'nother,"  she 
answered,  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  Horace  had  made 
classic  a  similar  sentiment  long  ago,  and  that  Maecenas 
had  been  shocked  into  a  fever  of  admiration  by  its  orig- 
inality. 

"  Emmy's  biscuits  ud  make  converts  if  she  was  to  go 
a-missionaryin',"  Mr.  Irish  often  remarked. 


f)7 


"  She's  a  good  gal,"  Julius  answered  his  mother,  when 
she  fell  into  extravagant  laudation  of  the  girl. 

"I  wonder  if  that's  all  he  thinks  o'  her,"  the  old 
woman  meditated.  But  at  times  she  fancied  she  dis- 
covered new  shades  of  meaning  in  his  simple  commen- 
dation. 


CHAPTER  VI 

EMMA  frequently  found  time  for  a  stroll  down  the 
mountain-side  and  into  the  gulches.  This  was  her  regu- 
lar substitute  for  Sunday  church -going,  and  her  devo- 
tional cravings  were  satisfied  by  the  silent  eloquence  of 
the  mountains.  She  carried  her  Bible  with  her,  though 
often  she  did  not  open  it.  She  would  sit  with  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  white  summits,  lost  in  the  vacant  numb- 
ness of  awe,  till  all  at  once  a  mighty  meaning  flashed 
through  the  world,  and  she  saw  as  by  inspiration. 

"  I  am  blessed  in  the  same  way  as  Caleb,  the  son  of 
Jephunneh,"  she  often  thought.  "  I  have  seen  that  good 
land  which  the  Lord  God  promised." 

Frequently,  with  the  deliberate  purpose  of  dwelling 
upon  the  Word,  she  would  seek  out  some  pine  in  whose 
shade  she  could  sit  as  under  an  awning,  while  the  rhythm 
of  the  branches  sounded  ceaselessly,  and  the  water  sent 
soft  echoes  through  the  draws  of  the  canon.  And  she 
would  read : 

"  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd ;  I  shall  not  want.  He 
maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures;  he  leadeth 
me  beside  the  still  waters.  .  .  .  Yea,  though  I  walk 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death — " 

But  her  religious  musings  were  too  restful  to  be  sus- 
tained; sublime  material  things  insisted  themselves  too 
strongly.  She  would  pause,  letting  the  silence  of  calm 
thought  complete  the  Psalmist's  mood  of  utter  faith,  and 


59 


her  eyes  would  wander  out  along  the  white  peaks,  while 
she  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  stand  up  there 
and  trace  out  the  new-born  rivers,  leaping  out  from  their 
icy  caves  into  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Sometimes  Julius  sought  her  out  in  these  Sabbath 
reveries,  and  they  discussed  the  themes  which  interested 
them  both.  She  enjoyed  his  argumentative  tone  even 
while  she  dreaded  it.  He  made  her  reason  in  spite  of 
herself,  though  she  always  fell  back  on  the  ground  that 
faith  is  a  more  trustworthy  faculty  than  reason.  And 
it  came  about  in  time  that  these  interviews  merged  into 
something  more  personal  than  an  interchange  of  opin- 
ions. They  became  tremulous  suggestions  of  feelings 
too  ecstatic  for  expression — occasions  when  a  look  or  a 
movement  spoke  a  whole  history  of  unquiet  rapture. 
The  future  was  hidden,  but  this  man  and  woman  were 
close  upon  it,  awaiting  the  lifting  of  the  curtain  as  if 
they  were  at  a  play.  Whatever  else  it  might  reveal,  they 
were  certain  of  their  interest  in  each  other,  and  for  the 
present  that  was  enough. 

"  I've  often  wondered,"  said  Julius  once,  when  they 
were  together  in  the  canon,  "  what  it  ud  be  like  to  have 
nothin'  to  do.  I've  heerd  they's  sech  folks  in  the  world 
— dad  says  he's  seen  'em  down  to  Denver." 

"I  don't  b'lieve  ye'd  like  it,"  said  Emma.  "/ 
wouldn't." 

"  I'd  like  more  time  fer  readin'  'n  what  I  git.  No,  I 
wouldn't  want  ter  do  jes'  nothin' — I  couldn't  live.  But 
I'd  like  a  chance  to  think  straight  ahead,  'thout  bein' 
interrupted.  I'd  like  to  know  things." 

"  What  ud  ye  do  with  'em  arter  ye  knowed  'em  ?" 

"  I'd  try  to  use  'em — I'd  try  to  help  folks.     I  don't 


reckon  I  could  do  much,  but  I'd  like  to  try.  It's  the 
wust  thing  we  have  to  bear  in  this  life,  Emmy,  't  God 
never  speaks.  If  Ile'd  only  tell  us  what  to  do — only 
hint  at  what's  right !  But  He  never  does.  'N'  the  only 
guides  we've  got  is  our  friends  'n'  our  own  weak  minds. 
Mebbe  't  wouldn't  be  no  plainer  to  me  even  if  I  was  wise 
'n'  knowed  things,  but — it-  ud  ease  me  to  find  out  fer 
myself  't  ign'rance  is  the  end 's  well  as  the  beginnin'  o' 
wisdom." 

"No;  God  ain't  allus  silent,  Julius,  reely.  I've  heerd 
'im ;  many  's  the  time  He's  spoke  to  me,  'n'  told  me  what 
to  do.  Religion  ain't  guess-work.  It's  the  opening  o' 
the  eyes  upon  the  reel  truth — they  ain't  no  mistakin' 
what  it  shows  ye.  If  ye  had  all  the  wisdom  o'  the 
world,  without  faith  in  God,  ye'd  never  be  a  bit  surer  'n 
ye  be  at  this  minute  'bout  yer  course  in  life.  It's  the 
innard  sight 't  sees — the  innard  ear  't  hears.  'N'  not  till 
ye  git  that  d'  ye  truly  know" 

"  I'd  like  to  have  that  sort  o'  faith,"  said  Julius.  "  But 
my  mind  's  dif'rent.  I've  got  to  know  things  from  the 
outside.  Well,  no  matter !  I  kin  do  what  comes  to 
hand,  anyway.  The  wisest  men  has  to  let  some  things 
go,  I  reckon.  Only — I  have  to  let  so  much  go.  Some- 
times it  don't  seem  fair.  But — J'm  more  contented 
sence  you  come,  Emmy." 

He  spoke  of  his  dissatisfaction  but  seldom,  and  the 
confidence  gave  her  a  feeling  of  solemnity.  "  Is  it  true 
't  I'm  a  help  to  'im?"  she  wondered.  The  thought 
thrilled  her  strangely. 

"Ye  have  a  hard  life  here  yerself,  Emmy,"  he  went 
on.  "  Don't  it  sometimes  come  over  ye  't  ye'd  like  to  go 
away — oh,  ever  so  fur  away,  where  they  's  better  things  ?" 


(il 


"  They  ain't  nothin'  better  'n  workin'  'n'  trustin',''  she 
answered. 

"I  know  ye  mean  it,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 
slow  examination.  "  You  don't  regret  the  time  ye  put 
in  a-prayin'.  You  don't  want  to  make  up  in  the  dance 
fer  the  time  ye've  lost  in  church.  Oh !  ye'd  make  a 
Christian  o'  me  if  anybody  could  !  But  'tain't  in  me — " 

"  I  kin  pray  fer  ye — " 

"  What's  the  good  ?  I  don't  b'lieve  in  prayer.  I 
useter  pray  myself — 'n'  I  had  the  right  feelin'  behind  it, 
too.  Oh,  I  made  it  the  expression  o'  all  my  highest 
longin's — ain't  that  what  a  prayer  orter  be  ?  But  in  the 
end  I  seen  plain  'nough  't  whatever  was  done  I'd  have 
to  do  myself.  No  matter — I  won't  bother  ye  with  it. 
But  I  wisht  I  could  make  things  easier  fer  you  here  on 
Cloud  Mountain — ye  deserve  the  best  in  the  world.  I — 
I  keer  fer  ye  so  much  't  I'd  like  to  see  ye  happy." 

"  I  have  the  best  in  the  world,"  she  answered.  "  I 
have  a  home  'n'  friends.  I  have  my  soul,  too — 'n'  what 
more  is  they  o'  me  ?  'N'  God — he's  so  near  up  'ere, 
Julius !  I  could  be  happy  on  a  desert  island,  'pears  to 
me,  if  I  only  had  a  minute  now  'n'  then  to  think  o'  Him." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  ye've  found  peace,  anyway,"  said 
Julius,  "  even  if  I  can't  find  it  myself  jest  as  you  do. 
Shall  we  go  back  now  ?  The  sun's  a-settin',  'n'  it  '11  soon 
be  milkin'-time." 

And  they  walked  back  along  the  ridge  in  silence,  each 
absorbed  in  thought.  Beyond  them  the  sunset  colored 
anew  the  faded  garments  of  the  day,  and  let  fall  a  splash 
of  red  here  and  there  even  among  the  gulches.  The 
moon  had  already  risen  and  was  hastening  up  the  sky, 
divided  between  love  for  the  sun  and  duty  to  the  earth. 


03 


There  was  a  chill  in  the  lower  air,  though  the  zenith 
looked  as  warm  as  at  mid-day. 

When  Julius  found  himself  alone  he  experienced  an 
uncontrollable  joy  at  having  outlined  his  feelings  to  her, 
though  so  imperfectly.  A  man  is  capable  of  that  ec- 
stasy of  confession  but  once,  and  that  when  he  first 
hints  of  his  passion  to  the  woman  he  loves. 

When  his  evening  tasks  were  done  he  returned  to  the 
house,  still  on  air.  His  mother  was  scolding — his  father 
sat  taking  it  quietly.  Had  they  ever  loved  each  other  ? 
he  wondered.  Yes ;  but  like  two  fossil  oysters  in  geo- 
logical ages.  A  love  like  his  for  Emma  could  never  sink 
to  that  level  of  recrimination  and  indifference.  lie  looked 
across  at  her  with  a  great  thankfulness  that  she  was  there, 
self-evident,  self-insistent,  lie  had  been  a  man  of  clay 
before  she  came — God's  last  creation,  lying  inert,  wait- 
ing for  the  divine  breath  of  life. 

Emma  liked  to  work  in  the  garden  in  the  Back  Canon. 
There  the  mountains  lost  something  of  their  strenuous 
majesty,  the  earth  was  more  at  ease ;  she  could  absorb 
the  refreshing  tranquillity  of  inanimate  living  things. 
In  the  silence  her  faith  discovered  harmonies  to  which 
the  ear  of  reason  is  deaf,  and  she  understood  how,  in 
Eden's  shade,  God  used  to  be  the  friend  and  companion 
of  man.  She  looked  back  with  cold  wonder  to  the  time 
when  she  had  thought  hopefully  of  death ;  when  it  had 
seemed  a  blessed  thing  for  the  heart  to  stop  hoping  and 
fearing,  wanting  and  working.  Now  it  was  enough  to 
move  on  in  the  clear,  wholesome  sunshine  of  every-day 
life,  conscious  of  the  reality  of  God  and  duty. 

Often  Julius  came  down  and  helped  her  with  her  bas- 
ket up  the  steep  path  to  the  house.  Then  the  two 


sturdy  figures,  the  manly  man  and  the  womanly  woman, 
fitted  into  a  scene  which  might  have  represented  a  bit  of 
stage  business,  so  satisfactory  was  it  in  an  artistic  and 
human  sense.  Their  relations  were  of  the  primitive  sort 
which  carry  weighty  consequences ;  it  is  always  so  when 
a  man  and  woman  find  qualities  in  each  other  to  admire. 
Yet,  with  all  their  primitiveness,  the  problem  of  their 
lives  was  precisely  what  civilization  would  have  made  it. 
Sociology,  regardless  of  classes  and  culture,  is  still  in 
a  state  of  chaos.  There  is  no  established  principle  of 
classification.  There  are  facts  enough,  but  no  connect- 
ing laws.  The  science  will  some  day  find  its  Cuvier, 
and  till  then  we  must  go  on  wondering  at  the  resem- 
blances between  the  lofty  and  the  lowly,  who  at  first 
sight  seem  associated  in  this  world  only  for  the  purposes 
of  contrast. 

Emma  did  not  need  Julius's  help  with  the  big  basket, 
but  it  was  good  to  feel  his  strong,  kindly  presence  near 
her.  She  watched  the  swing  of  his  firm,  square  shoul- 
ders with  admiring  wonder.  "  He  might  a-been  one  o' 
the  heads  o'  thousands  in  Israel,"  she  often  thought. 
She  had  other  pictures  of  him  in  her  mind,  too — when 
he  reproved  his  father's  gay  good-humor  by  his  own 
grave  thoughtfulness,  or  soothed  his  mother's  exagger- 
ated irritability,  or  strengthened  Abiathar's  flaccid  irre- 
sponsibility into  something  like  an  appreciation  of  the 
hard  exactions  of  life.  He  was  the  first  real  man  of  her 
experience ;  his  silent  strength  impressed  her  as  some- 
thing great  and  noble ;  his  modesty  seemed  to  her  but 
little  below  genius.  She  liked  to  have  him  feel  that 
she  understood  him,  sympathized  with  him;  for  always 
she  recognized  in  him  the  spiritual  hunger  of  unsatisfied 


(54 


effort,  the  poverty  of  one  whose  ambitions  had  never 
been  attained. 

And  now  it  was  late  in  summer.  The  aspens  had- 
turned  yellow  on  the  higher  levels,  and  the  mists  lay  in 
heavy  purple  glooms  along  the  foot-hills.  Summer  de- 
parted slowly,  and  was  most  gracious  in  her  going.  The 
cottonwoods  were  still  green  in  the  gulches,  and  the 
mists,  just  as  in  midsummer,  rose  white  above  the 
ridges,  turned  violet,  and  descended  in  showers.  There 
were  still  flowers  and  sunlight,  and  the  world  was  full  of 
pleasant  noises. 

One  day  Emma  Webster  had  been  gathering  raspber- 
ries from  the  low  bushes  on  the  mountain-side,  and,  after 
filling  her  pail,  had  sat  down  to  rest.  The  curled  green 
feathers  of  the  ground-pine  made  a  soft  carpet  for  her 
feet,  and  there  were  pine  -  cones  and  acorns  scattered 
about.  The  sun  was  just  touching  a  great  white  summit 
in  the  west.  It  was  as  if  the  mountain  were  holding  a 
torch  aloft.  She  watched  it  with  awed  content. 

Then  Julius  came  zigzag  down  the  steep  path  among 
the  pines.  She  watched  him,  now  in  sunshine,  now  in 
shadow,  loosening  a  stone  here  and  there  and  sending  it 
rolling  to  the  very  edge  of  the  stream  below.  Now  she 
lost  sight  of  him  behind  some  rocks  where  she  knew  a 
tiny  spring  welled  forth  and  thick  club  -  mosses  grew  ; 
now  he  came  into  view  again,  spreading  his  great  fig- 
ure in  strides  which  would  have  been  possible  only  to 
a  mountaineer.  His  arms  were  full  of  late  wild-flow- 
ers— bluish  -  purple  clematis,  scarlet  gilias,  yellow  cliff- 
roses,  pale  alpine  blossoms  from  the  higher  levels  of 
the  hills. 

"  Mother  tole  me  ye  was  down  'ere,"  he  said,  as  he 


gained  her  side.  "  See  what  I've  fetched  fer  ye  !"  And 
he  spread  the  flowers  in  her  lap. 

She  laid  her  hands  upon  them,  fondling  them  as  if 
they  were  sentient  things.  Her  pleased  smile  brought  a 
sympathetic  flush  into  his  sunburned  cheek. 

"  Thankee,"  she  said.  "  How  purty  !"  and  she  held 
off  a  stem  of  gilias  to  get  the  full  effect. 

"  Yes,  I  like  'em  myself,"  he  said,  taking  a  seat  at  her 
side.  "  The  bears  useter  come  'ere  fer  berries — 'd  ye 
know  they  was  powerful  fond  o'  'em,  V  could  pick  'em 
's  neat  's  human  bein's  ?  I  shot  my  fust  'nn  down  there 
by  that  log  o'  driftwood  near  the  crick.  It  was  arter  a 
wet  mornin',  'n'  the  sun  'd  come  out,  'n'  jes'  's  I  was 
creepin'  through  the  bresh  beyend  that  blasted  pine,  I 
seen  'im,  settin'  up  on  'is  haunches  's  solemn  's  a  graven 
image.  Well !  if  ye  could  know  how  a  feller's  breath 
comes,  how  his  blood  tingles,  when  he  feels  a  good  gun 
in  his  hand  'n'  has  a  mark  like  that  afore  'im !"  Here 
the  hunter's  eye  lit  up  with  reminiscent  enthusiasm.  "  I 
pulled  up  my  gun  'n'  fetched  'im,  fust  off.  Lord !  what 
a  feller  he  was  !  He  never  even  granted.  I  can  see 
'im  turnin'  over  even  now.  'N'  wa'n't  I  proud  ?  Dad 
bought  me  a  new  sombrero  with  silver  cord,  'n'  we  salted 
the  meat  fer  winter.  But  they're  all  killed  off  now.  I 
ain't  seen  one  in  these  parts  fer  more  'n  two  year." 

They  talked  while  she  massed  the  flowers  into  a 
bouquet.  "  I'm  glad  ye  brought  'em,"  she  said.  "  I'll 
put  'em  over  the  fireplace,  where  yer  mother  can  see  'em. 
Queer  how  the  flowers  't  bloom  so  early  in  the  gulches 
has  to  wait  till  late  summer  to  come  out  on  the  foot- 
hills !" 

"  Ye  might  put  some  o'  'em  in  yer  hair,"  remarked 

6 


66 


Julius.  "Them  blue  vetches  ud  look  purty  agin  yer 
light  braid.  Let  me  do  it." 

But  her  hands  relaxed  among  the  tangled  stems,  and  she 
drew  back.  Her  eyes  met  his  with  a  dawning  change. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

"No?    Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  like  moist  things  agin  my  hair." 

"  Moist?     How  kin  ye  call  'em  so — ' 

"  Anyways,  they're  better  in  a  bokay." 

He  was  repulsed,  but  he  would  not  be  cast  down.  He 
found  a  buoyant  consolation  for  his  rebuff  in  the  flush 
his  offer  had  called  into  her  pale  cheek.  He  easily 
turned  the  conversation  to  religion,  and  was  startled  into 
new  admiration  by  the  innocent  security  of  her  trust,  by 
the  earnestness  with  which  she  threw  her  woman's  feel- 
ings into  her  beliefs,  and  by  the  simple  faith  where  intui- 
tion reigned  supreme. 

'*  No,"  said  Julius,  in  pursuance  of  the  theme  on 
which  they  had  started.  "  They  ain't  no  sense  in  pur- 
tendin'  to  b'lieve  't  repentance  is  all  't  's  ne'sary  to  git  to 
heaven.  Kin  a  few  tears  atone  fer  the  wrong-doin'  o'  a 
lifetime  ?  Kin  I  weep  myself  into  everlastin'  bliss  arter 
murderin'  my  nearest  relation  ?  Kin  I — " 

He  was  startled  by  a  cry  from  his  companion.  She 
rose  hastily  and  started  up  the  path.  He  followed.  He 
forgot  the  flowers,  until,  as  they  were  crossing  the  arid 
hill,  she  gathered  a  handful  of  wild  sunflowers,  and  on 
entering  the  house  stuck  them  up  against  the  chimney. 
He  accounted  for  the  action  at  his  leisure  and  in  his 
own  way. 

He  had  never  been  in  love  before,  but  as  time  went 
on  he  found  it  difficult  to  preserve  the  conservative  atti- 


f,7 


tude  of  limited  experience,  even  before  his  own  imagi- 
nation. He  had  material  enough  in  him  for  a  dozen 
grand  passions;  seeing  Emma  Webster  every  day  gave 
him  a  scope  of  assurance  which  might  have  resulted 
from  having  loved  many  women — and  all  of  them  good. 
In  spite  of  considerable  thinking,  his  life  till  now  had 
been  mostly  physical ;  it  had  meant  little  more  than  the 
work  his  body  was  able  to  perform,  the  moods  which 
were  the  effect  of  growth,  waste,  and  repair ;  but  all  the 
time  the  seeds  of  passion  had  been  quiescent  within,  re- 
quiring only  favorable  circumstances  to  germinate  sud- 
denly and  luxuriantly.  And  now  life  took  on  new  mean- 
ings, settled  itself  in  the  foreground  of  new  perspectives. 
Love,  in  his  thoughts,  became  all  at  once  the  regulator  of 
the  universe — the  law  through  which  opposing  impulses 
harmonize  and  work  together  in  friendly  unison.  He 
saw  in  it  the  force  which  binds  the  most  insignificant 
atom  to  the  infinite  God  who  made  it.  He  understood 
for  the  first  time  the  meaning  of  the  trite  phrase,  "  God 
is  love."  In  becoming  a  lover,  he  had  become  a  philoso- 
pher, too. 

He  compared  Emma  Webster  with  all  the  women  he 
had  ever  met,  and  decided  that  there  were  none  like  her. 
He  worshipped  her  with  affectionate  awe  which  might 
easily  have  broken  forth  into  importunate  claims.  She 
was  too  good  for  him,  he  knew ;  and  perhaps  that  was 
why  every  nerve  in  his  body  demanded  her  as  the  fitting 
completion  of  his  life.  But  after  that  day  when  he  had 
brought  her  the  flowers,  she  held  herself  more  and  more 
aloof.  Her  appealing  eyes  kept  him  at  a  distance.  Did 
she  dread  him?  was  she  repelled  by  him?  He  felt  that 
he  must  know  the  truth.  Submission  to  the  silence  im- 


posed  by  her  glance  was  a  pleasure,  but  of  a  negative 
sort — such  as  a  man  derives  from  trying  to  make  himself 
believe  that  he  is  pleased.  Julius  required  something 
more  directly  in  the  line  of  vigorous  understanding.  He 
could  not  sit  down  in  silence,  foreclosed  of  what  he  most 
desired.  He  must  have  all  or  nothing,  and  he  must 
have  it  by  definite  confession. 

As  the  days  passed,  the  grim  determination  grew  upon 
him  to  force  his  love  upon  her,  cost  what  it  might.  He 
awaited  his  opportunity,  and  at  last  it  came. 

"  Emmy !"  he  called  after  her  one  morning  before 
breakfast,  as  she  started  to  the  spring  for  a  pail  of  water. 

She  did  not  turn  or  answer,  though  he  saw  her  start  as 
if  she  heard. 

He  repeated  her  name,  hurrying  after  her  eagerly. 
She  was  at  the  spring  now,  bending  to  dip  the  pail  into 
the  pellucid  hollow  sphere  among  the  rocks.  The  bowl- 
ders rose  in  mottled  blackness  beyond  her;  the  water 
went  pirouetting  away  in  silver  circles  at  her  feet ;  the 
music  of  the  pines  seemed  to  float  on  the  tone  of  the 
hoarse  water  in  the  gulch. 

"  Emmy  !"  he  repeated  in  a  louder  voice.  She  looked 
over  her  shoulder  at  him  as  she  bent  above  the  spring. 
"  Why  didn't  ye  send  me  fer  the  water  ?"  he  asked — 
"  me,  or  'Biathar  ?" 

Her  face  flushed  as  she  answered  : 

"  Oh,  I  could  come  jes'  's  well."  She  had  forgotten 
her  pail,  and  had  set  it  down  half  filled  upon  a  rock. 
The  air  was  chilly,  the  mists  still  clung  about  the  pines. 
There  were  mournful  sounds  in  the  gulches,  as  if  the 
ghost  of  night  down  there  were  mourning  the  vanished 
glory  of  the  stars. 


"Be  ye  in  a  hurry?"  Julius  asked.  He  felt  his  lips 
quivering  eagerly  with  what  he  had  followed  her  to  say. 

"  Hurry  ?"  she  repeated.  "  They  's  allus  plenty  to 
do." 

"  But  ye  kin  stop  a  bit — " 

"  No — no,  the  breakfast  mus'  be  got — "  She  made 
a  mechanical  movement  towards  the  pail. 

"  Never  mind  the  water,"  he  said,  his  self-control  in- 
creasing as  he  saw  that  she  was  losing  hers.  "  I'll  dip 
it  up  'n'  kerry  it  in.  Set  down  there  on  the  rock  'n' 
let's  talk." 

"  Talk  ?  oh,  why  ?"  she  expostulated. 

"  Ye'll  see  why,  arter  I  git  through.  The  breakfast 
kin  wait.  None  o'  us  is  goin'  out  on  the  range  this 
mornin',  'n'  'twon't  matter  if  we  ain't 's  early  's  usu'l." 

"  No — no  ;  I  mus'  go  in  !" 

But  he  motioned  her  back  with  an  arm  that  struck  out 
straight  from  the  shoulder  and  suggested  fight.  She 
stared  at  him  a  moment  in  dumb  pleading,  then  obeyed. 

"  They  's  a  dozen  things  waitin'  to  be  done,"  she  said, 
in  a  faint  voice.  She  drew  a  wreath  of  clematis  down 
from  the  rocks,  and  began  to  pluck  nervously  at  the 
ragged  leaves. 

"  Let  'em  wait,"  frowned  Julius.  "  They  kin  stan'  it 
better  'n  what  I  kin.  It's  broke  me  all  up — this  'ere 
thing  o'  beatin'  'round  the  bush  the  way  we've  been 
doin'.  It  ain't  fair — it  ain't  straight.  Why  can't  we 
look  each  other  square  in  the  face  'n'  say  what  we've 
got  to  say,  'thout  shyin'  off  'n'  rnakin'  b'lieve  everything 
's  all  right  ?" 

"  I'm  shore  I've  allus  said  all 't  I  had  to  say." 

"  Well,  /ain't,  then  !    I've  had  heaps  to  say  't  I  hain't 


TO 


spoke  a  word  of — heaps  to  say  't  I  can't  never  say,  fer 
words  is  too  little  fer  sech  idees.  Ye  know  what  I  mean  ? 
I've  been  crazy-like  ever  sence  that  day  I  found  ye 
down  in  the  berry-patch.  'N'  I  won't  be  put  off  no 
longer." 

She  smiled  at  him  tremulously,  even  while  she  made 
a  helpless  little  movement  as  if  to  quell  her  heart-beats. 

"  I — I  didn't  reelize  't  my  talk  was  so  important,  or 
I'd  a-give  ye  more  o'  it,"  she  said.  She  knew  he  would 
contradict  her,  and  she  looked  patient  of  contradiction 
beforehand. 

"  It  is — it  is  !  It  means  more  to  me  'n  all  the  Bible 
talk  ye  could  scrape  together.  It  means — " 

"  Don't  be  profane,"  she  murmured. 

"  'N'  don't  you  be  contrairy  !  Ye  have  been  contrairy — 
ye  know  ye  have.  'N'  now — I  want  ye  to  stop  it.  My 
turn  's  come,  'n'  I  mean  to  run  things  my  own  way — if 
I  have  anything  to  say,  I'm  a-goin'  to  say  it.  I  want  to 
know  why  ye  never  look  at  me  no  more — never  sence 
that  day  when  ye  flung  away  my  posies  !" 

"  Never  look  at  ye  ?" 

"  Ye  know  ye  never  do !" 

Her  air  was  calmer  now,  but  he  knew  she  felt  more 
agitation  than  she  showed,  as  she  went  on  stripping  the 
leaves  from  the  spray  of  clematis  and  tossing  them  from 
her. 

"  It  seems  to  me  I'm  allus  lookin'  at  ye,"  she  said, 
turning  away  her  face. 

The  answer  pleased  him,  and  he  smiled. 

"  Ye  mus'  do  it  behind  my  back,  then  !  Oh  yes — ye 
kind  o'  look  aroun'  the  edges  o'  me — I've  seen  ye  doin' 
that,  but  ye  never  let  me  ketch  yer  eye.  Say !  be  I  so 


71 


orfle  humbly  't  ye  can't  bear  to  look  straight  at  me  ? 
D'  ye  hate  the  sight  o'  me  's  bad  's  that  ?" 

"  I  d'  know  why  a  man  should  want  to  be  purty,"  she 
retorted,  with  unexpected  spirit. 

He  ignored  the  sally,  aware  that  she  intended  to  divert 
him  from  the  real  subject  in  hand. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  color  o'  yer  eyes  wunst  in  a  while ! 
Two  folks  has  got  to  look  straight  at  each  other  if  they 
want  to  be  friends.  They's  suthin'  in  friendship  't  re- 
quires it.  Say  !  we  be  friends,  be'ent  we  ?"  His  heavy 
chest  tones  were  becoming  masterful  again. 

"  I'm  shore  I  ain't  aimed  to  be  unfriendly,"  she  hesi- 
tated. 

"  The  trouble  is,  ye  ain't  been  friendly  'nough.  Now, 
I'd  like  to  be  fust-rate  friends.  Why  can't  we  be? 
We've  got  it  in  us  to  like  each  other.  We  be  friends, 
be'ent  we  ?" 

"  Yes."  She  admitted  it  willingly  enough ;  but  even 
had  she  tried  to  resist,  she  knew  she  would  have  been 
overborne  by  this  strong,  victorious  soul,  whose  very 
presence  implied  subjection.  It  gave  her  a  sweet,  dis- 
trustful pleasure  that  he  should  insist  on  a  formal  decla- 
ration of  friendship ;  he  had  often  seemed  inaccessible 
to  any  satisfactions  except  those  which  are  evidences  of 
known  laws,  and  his  strength  had  appeared  as  widely 
removed  from  her  timorous  joys  as  if  he  were  a  being 
of  another  sphere.  Something  like  gratitude  sprang  up 
in  her  at  the  assurance  of  his  need  of  her ;  but  back  of 
this  new  feeling  was  one  of  older  growth  which  she  had 
tried  to  hide  even  from  herself.  She  had  not  succeeded; 
the  truth  had  whispered  itself  all  about  her  when  she 
was  alonc-i-had  insisted  on  making  itself  heard  and  rec- 


72 


ognized.  She  loved  him — the  emotion  was  so  plain  to 
her  that  she  could  not  conceive  his  total  ignorance  of 
what  she  tried  to  conceal.  And  this  effort  at  conceal- 
ment was  not  wholly  one  of  womanly  modesty;  it  was 
a  struggle  in  which  conscience  and  inclination  came  to- 
gether like  wind  and  wave.  She  knew  too  well  that  it 
would  be  a  wrong  to  Julius,  a  wrong  to  her  own  higher 
nature,  to  accept  her  happiness  at  his  hands.  Love,  that 
sublime  production  of  ignorance,  insists  too  often  on 
complete  knowledge;  and  if  Julius  were  to  know  the 
whole  truth,  his  feeling  for  her  would  be  no  longer  love, 
but  hatred  and  horror  and  scorn. 

"  Fust-rate  friends  ?"  he  insisted. 

"Yes." 

"Better  friends  'n  ye've  ever  been  with  anybody 
afore  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  But  ye  take  it  so  quiet — if  ye  only  felt  it  like  I  do, 
Emmy  !  To  me  it's  a  wonderful  thing  tojoiow  't  ye  keer 
fer  me — a  little.  The  idee  has  made  the  world  over! 
Why,  things  is  so  dif'rent  sence — " 

"  Dif'rent  ?"  she  questioned. 

"  Because  you're  here.  That  'counts  for  everything  ! 
Afore  ye  come — but  I  won't  try  to  tell  how  things  was. 
What's  the  good  o'  'memb'rin'  ?  It's  gone — it  '11  never 
come  back !  'N'  if  we're  friends — reely  friends,  I  mean 
— say,  d  'ye  know  what  reely  bein'  friends  means,  Emmy  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  were  far  away,  fastened 
upon  something  visible  only  to  herself.  The  sun  had 
risen,  and  was  making  long  blurs  of  gray  light  above  the 
gulches.  Some  clouds,  floating  high  in  the  blue  sky,  car- 
ried with  them  a  sense  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow  such  as 


accompanies  all  remote,  evanescent  things.  But  she  heard 
all  that  Julius  said  ;  when  he  stopped  it  was  like  a  pause 
in  music.  In  his  words  her  thoughts  glided  on  in  smooth 
content,  like  a  ship  on  a  sunny  sea. 

"  It  means  we  must  have  confidence  in  each  other — 
bear  one  another's  joys  'n'  sorrers  in  comp'ny.  Friends 
can't  deal  out  confidences  like  the  grocer  down  there  to 
Donhaly  City  deals  out  sugar  'n'  vinegar,  by  pounds  'n' 
quarts.  It's  all  or  nothin' ;  friends  can't  be  friends  if 
anything  's  held  back.  If  it  wa'n't  so — " 

UA11  or  nothin'  might  mean  more  to  me  'n  to  you," 
she  said,  half  bitterly. 

"  Jest  as  much ;  neither  more  nor  less.  Can  we  be 
good  'nough  friends  fer  that?  'Ud  ye  be  willin' — " 

"  No.  'Tain't  no  use  to  make  b'lieve.  I  kin  never  do 
that.  I  sha'n't  try." 

His  face  fell,  but  he  had  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  his 
voice  became  more  tender. 

"  Now  ye're  mad  at  me,"  he  said,  in  gentle  reproach. 

"  Mad  ?  no.  I'm  only  speakin'  plain.  'Tain't  no  harder 
fer  ye  to  hear  it  'n  fer  me  to  say  it,  I  reckon.  Let  me  go  in !" 

"  Be  ye  sure  ye  ain't  mad — sure  ?"  he  asked,  earnestly. 
His  masterful  air  had  disappeared,  and  he  was  pleading 
with  her. 

"  Sure,"  was  the  grave  answer. 

"  Tell  me  one  thing.     Was  ye  ever  mad  at  me  ?" 

"  Never !"  The  answer  was  all  ready,  and  came  with 
decision. 

"  Not  even  that  day  down  in  the  berry-patch  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  why  'd  ye  throw  my  posies  away  ?  I  fetched 
'em  clean  down  from  the  Bashan  Hills." 


74 


She  looked  down  at  the  clematis,  which  was  receiving 
a  thorough  crushing  at  her  hands. 

"  I  wasn't  mad  at  ye,"  she  repeated. 

"  Ye  didn't  want  me  to  put  'em  in  yer  hair  ?" 

"  No." 

"  'N'  yet  ye  wa'n't  mad  ?" 

«  No." 

"  Well,  gals  is  queer !     But  tell  me— tell  me  why  !" 

"  I— I  can't,  Julius  !" 

The  appeal  of  her  voice  touched  him,  but  he  went  on : 

"  Ye  reckoned  I  meant — suthin'  more  'n  friendship  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  this.  Her  eyes  closed  against  his 
for  an  instant,  and  when  she  opened  them  it  was  to  fix 
them  on  the  rivulet,  beating  its  way  down  among  the 
foam-fringed  rocks. 

He  examined  her  gravely,  reading  her  answer  in  her 
silence. 

"Well,  ye  kin  tell  me  one  thing,  anyway — have  ye 
been  afeerd  ever  sence  't  I  might  go  on  in  the  same 
way,  doin'  things  ye  didn't  like?" 

"  I  wanted  ye  to  be  more  keerful,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

A  change  passed  into  his  fine  face— a  look  of  self-up- 
giving  which  his  next  words  confirmed. 

"I  don't  want  to  do  nothin'  to  displease  ye,  Emmy. 
I  don't  want  ye  to  think  o'  me  as  a  trouble — as  suthin' 
ye'd  ruther  have  out  o'  the  way.  I  know  I'm  rough  'n' 
outlandish — " 

"  Don't  talk  like  that !"  she  interrupted.    "  What  be  I  ?" 

"  I  never  had  no  chance  to  be  nothin'  else ;  but  a  man 
may  wear  his  seamy  side  out  'n'  be  smooth  as  the  best, 
'way  in.  Ye  could  make  me  better,  though,  if  ye'd  take 


78 


a  little  pains  with  me,  Emmy.  I  could  grow  more  V 
more  to  yer  likin',  if  ye'd  let  me  see  jes'  what  ye  like. 
But  I  could  keep  out  o'  yer  sight  if  I  bother  ye.  I 
could — " 

"  If  ye  bother  me  !"  he  heard  her  mutter. 

"  I  could  stay  out  on  the  hills  with  the  herds,  or—" 

But  she  broke  in  before  he  had  time  to  mention  other 
means  of  mitigating  himself  as  a  nuisance. 

"  If  anybody  was  to  leave,  it  'ud  be  me,  Julius  Irish ! 
I  orter  a-gone  somers  else  with  my  troubles.  I  orter 
never  seen  ye,  never  spoke  to  ye !  Yes,  we  be  friends, 
surely,  surely.  But — " 

"Well,  but  what?" 

"  But  nothin'  more.  'N'  we  never  kin  be.  Don't  ask 
me  why — the  wind  might  hear  it,  the  water  might  blab 
it,  V  then —  No,  Julius,  nothin'  more — never  !" 

She  leaped  to  her  feet,  filled  the  pail,  and  almost  ran 
with  it  towards  the  house.  He  watched  her  disappear 
with  eves  which  uttered  a  whole  epilogue  of  contradic- 
tions. 

"  She  don't  hate  me,  anyway,"  he  meditated.  "  Mebbe 
I've  been  too  fast  with  'er,  tryin'  to  make  'er  keep  step 
to  my  music.  Well — they  's  other  times  comin'.  We'll 
see  what  we'll  see  !" 

He  refrained  with  philosophical  abstinence  from  con- 
tinuing the  conversation  the  next  time  he  had  a  chance. 
"  I've  skeered  'er,"  he  reflected,  with  grave  consideration 
for  her  feelings.  "  I'll  let  'er  git  over  this  round,  'n' 
then  try  ag'in."  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  give  up. 
That  would  have  been  worse  than  giving  up  life  itself. 

So  for  some  time  he  confined  his  conversation  to  im- 
personal themes — the  accident  at  Sunderland's  Camp, 


70 


the  limited  Capacity  of  Temple's  mill  to  ripsaw  lumber, 
the  prospects  of  hunting  during  the  fall.  He  still  dis- 
cussed religion  with  her,  and  once  justified  certain  pro- 
fane remarks  of  his  while  dealing  with  a  bucking  broncho 
by  a  quotation  from  Deuteronomy  to  the  effect  that  the 
Lord  himself  was  once  wroth  and  swore. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  second  crop  of  oats  had  been  harvested,  the  po- 
tatoes were  dug,  the  alfalfa  and  hay  were  stacked  up  in 
the  lowland  fields.  The  great  dugout  on  the  hill-side 
back  of  the  house  was  full  to  overflowing  with  the  treas- 
ures of  autumn :  turnips  and  parsnips  and  cabbages  in 
heaps,  apples  and  potatoes  in  bins  and  barrels,  great 
jolly  pumpkins,  easing  their  fat  sides  against  the  brown 
mud  wall. 

"  It's  been  a  good  year,"  said  Mr.  Irish,  comfortably. 
"  We've  got  stored-up  pervisions  fer  two  year — ye  kin 
all  see  fer  yerselves.  'N'  yit  the  ole  woomarn  ain't  sat- 
isfied. I  wonder,"  he  added,  with  a  look  of  philosoph- 
ical speculation — "  I  wonder  if  the  Lord  foresaw  how 
much  comfort  He  was  takin'  out  o'  the  life  o'  man  when 
He  up  V  done  that  unne'sary  surgical  operation  on 
Adam.  No,  no,  He  couldn't,  or  He'd  a-let  the  pore 
critter  alone  !" 

Mrs.  Irish  had  recovered  the  use  of  her  hands.  She 
could  wipe  dishes  and  sew.  This  was  a  great  comfort 
to  her.  She  was  no  longer  so  shrilly  querulous,  so  stu- 
pidly ferocious  as  she  had  been  in  her  helplessness.  She 
was  making  a  patchwork  quilt  from  pieces  which  she 
had  brought  from  Illinois,  but  had  never  had  time  to 
use.  It  was  called  the  wild-goose  chase  —  and  looked 
like  its  name. 


7S 


Sometimes  she  even  wept  a  little  as  she  thought  of  the 
uselessness  of  her  lower  limbs. 

"Don't  mind  my  cryin',''  she  would  say  to  Emma. 
"  Tears  don't  come  from  great  depths.  I'm  a  heap- 
sight  happier  'n  I  was  afore  I  conld  cry."  And  Emma 
smiled  understandingly.  She  realized  that  this  woman's 
life  had  been  fuller  of  thorn  than  blossom,  and  a  great 
pity  filled  her  as  its  spiritual  poverty  became  more  and 
more  familiar.  There  was  a  Biblical  breadth  of  simplicity 
in  the  relations  of  the  two  women  which  affected  the 
temperament  of  each  for  good. 

"Seems  queer  to  me,"  Mrs.  Irish  one  day  remarked, 
"  how  't  'Biathar  ain't  never  been  arter  ye  to  marry  'im. 
He's  ast  every  gal  he's  seen  in  the  las'  six  years." 

Emma  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  mis' able  kerdoogen  had  ast 
ye  'n'  ye  never  tole  me  !"  cried  the  old  woman.  "  When  'd 
he  do  it  ?" 

"  The  nex'  day  arter  I  come." 

"  There !  what  'd  I  tell  ye  ?  The  nex'  day  arter  ye 
come !  'N'  how  've  ye  kep'  'im  still  sence  then  ?" 

"  I'm  afeerd  I  hain't,"  confessed  Emma  Webster. 

"  He's  ast  me  three  times  a  week,  reg'lar.  I'm  gittin' 
so  I  don't  mind  it  now." 

"  Don't  mind  it !  He'll  set  ye  howlin'  crazy.  What 
does  he  say  ?" 

"  He  says  he'd  ruther  have  me  in  the  fam'ly  'n  Cynthy 
Beanston.  He  says  I'm  a  smarter  gal." 

"  Great  sufferin' !  I  should  think  so  !"  breathed  Mrs. 
Irish.  "  'N'  what  'd  ye  say  back  ?" 

"  I  tole  'im  I  didn't  want  to  marry  nobody." 

"  What !  be  a  ole  maid  all  yer  life  !     It's  bad  'nough 


79 


to  be  married,  but  to  live  a  ole  maid — land !  ye  couldn't 
a-meant  it !" 

"  I  reckon  I'm  happiest  the  way  I  be." 

The  old  woman  frowned. 

"  It's  easier  to  be  mis' able  in  comp'ny  'n  all  by  yerself," 
she  proclaimed. 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  a  body  don't  have  to  be  mis'able,  no- 
how," was  the  answer. 

"  Well,  but  never  to  marry — think  what  that  means ! 
'N'  a  gal  has  sech  chances  here  in  the  Rocky  Mountains 
— ye  don't  seem  to  see  things  the  way  they  be !  Lemme 
tell  ye,  if  ye  expeck  to  find  yer  happiness  in  this  'ere 
world,  ye've  got  to  keep  yer  eyes  open  'n'  ketch  it  on 
the  fly.  Joy  don't  grow  like  buttercups,  fer  every  kid 
to  pick  'n'  kerry  off.  Ye've  got  to  hunt  fer  it — sneak 
up  on  it  agin  the  wind,  'n'  pop  it  over  when  it  ain't 
thinkin'  'n'  tote  it  home.  Never  marry  ! — Well !" 

"  'Ud  ye  like  me  to  marry  'Biathar  ?"  asked  the  young 
woman,  with  a  sly  smile. 

Mrs.  Irish  snorted. 

"No,  no!  '.Zfta^a?-?— Lord,  no!  But  they's  others — 
'Biathar  ain't  the  only  single  man  in  these  parts.  But 
what  'd  he  say  when  ye  tole  'im  ye  didn't  want  to  marry 
nobody  ?" 

The  question  was  an  idle  one,  but  it  touched  some 
sensitive  memory  in  the  young  woman's  mind,  for  she 
flushed  and  looked  away.  Mrs.  Irish's  sharp  eyes  ex- 
amined her  closely,  but  she  did  not  urge  the  question. 
That  afternoon,  however,  when  alone  with  Abiathar,  she 
began : 

"  So  ye've  been  askin'  Emmy  Webster  to  marry  ye, 
have  ye  ?  Well !" 


"  Lor',  yes,"  was  the  ready  answer.  "  I  been  doin'  it 
off  'n'  on  fer  three  months  now !" 

"  Ye  managed  to  keep  it  mighty  clost  from  yer  moth- 
er, I  mus'  say." 

"  Oh,  I  knowed  ye'd  kick — that's  why  !" 

"  Now  lookee  'ere ;  I  want  this  'ere  eternal  kerflum- 
midoodlin'  o'  your'n  stopped — d'ye  see?  Emmy  Web- 
ster '11  up  'n'  strike  out  fer  Donhaly  City,  fust  we  know. 
Then  what  '11  we  do  ?" 

"  Dunno,"  said  Abiathar,  cheerfully.  "  'Less  ye'll  let 
me  bring  Cynthy  over." 

"  Cynthy  !  I'd  be  a  corpse  afore  a  week  was  out.  Ye 
don't  reckon  she'd  marry  ye,  nohow,  do  ye  ?" 

"  Ye  bet  she  would — 'n'  jump  at  the  chance  !" 

"  I  mean  Emmy,  ye  silly  coot !" 

"  Oh,  Emmy  ! — no,  I  don't  reckon  she  would.  I  jes' 
keep  on  tryin'.  'Tain't  no  trouble  to  me." 

Mrs.  Irish  suppressed  something  violent  by  the  ques- 
tion: 

"  I  reckon  ye're  still  a-koosterin'  aroun'  arter  Cynthy 
these  days,  same  's  ever  ?" 

"  I  reckon  I  be,"  grinned  Abiathar. 

"Oh, 'Biathar,  'Biathar,  she's  sech  a  fool !" 

"  Well,  so  be  I,"  said  Abiathar  in  extenuation. 

"  'N'  she's  sech  a  everlastin'  chuggy  critter !" 

"  Yes,"  Abiathar  admitted,  "  Cynthy's  fat 's  'er  biggest 
p'int." 

"  She  ain't — 'Biathar,  she  ain't  got  the  sense  't  God 
gives  geese !" 

"  But  she  thinks  I'm  a  turble  feller  !" 

"  That's  only  'nother  way  o'  sayin'  the  same  thing. 
Now,  lookee  'ere !" 


81 


."  Yessem." 

"  Ye're  boun'  to  marry  a  fool — no  sensible  gal  '11 
have  ye." 

"  Yessem." 

"'N'  the  sooner  it's  over  with,  the  less  frettin'  'n' 
'tewin'  they'll  be  for  me." 

"  Sure  thing !" 

"  'N'  so  I'm  willin'  to  make  a  bargain  with  ye." 

"  Yessem  ?" 

"  Ye're  to  let  Emmy  Webster  'lone,  d'  ye  mind  ?  'N' 
ye  ain't  to  tag  aroun'  arter  'er  so  't  nobody  else  can't  git 
a  word  in  edgeways  'thout  ye're  bein'  aroun'  to  hear." 

"  I  savey !" 

"  'N'  if  anybody  should  want  to  talk  with  'er — if  ye 
should  see  anybody  a-talkin'  with  'er — " 

"But  they  ain't  nobody  to  talk  to  'er  but  me  'n' 
Julius!" 

"  That's  jes'  what  I  mean.  If  her  V  Julius  should  bo 
talkin'  together — " 

Abiathar  whistled. 

"  Snickerin'  Moses  ! — Julius  !" 

"  Keep  yer  face  still  'n'  'tend  to  what  I  say !  If  ye 
should  see  'em  edgin'  up  to  each  other — " 

"  I'm  to  edge  the  other  way,  hey  ?  Lor',  but  they 
won't,  marm  !  Lemme  tell  ye  why.  'Long  when  she 
fust  come  'n'  I  ast  'er  'n'  she  said  she  wouldn't ;  '  Well,' 
says  I, '  don't  ye  never  mean  to  marry  nobody  ?'  '  No,' 
says  she.  '  Wouldn't  ye  take  even  Julius  ?'  says  I.  'N1 
she  says  '  No.'  " 

The  old  woman  considered  deeply. 

"  Well,  gals  sometimes  change  their  minds,"  she  said, 
at  last.  "  But  if  ye  keep  out  o'  the  way  'n'  do  jes'  like 


I've  told  ye,  I'll  let  ye  go  down  to  Donhaly  City  some- 
time afore  winter  V — Lord  save  us  ! — doubla  up  with 
Cynthy  Beanston." 

Abiathar  gave  a  howl  of  joy,  which  was  followed  by  an 
exclamation  of  suspicion. 

"Ow,  ye're  honeyfoglin'  me — ye  don't  mean  a  word 
ye  say.  Ye  jes'  want  me  to  help  them  along — 'n'  then 
ye'll  peter  out  on  me.  I  know  you  /" 

"  I  mean  it,"  declared  his  mother. 

"  Well,  now,  if  ye  ain't  a  peach  !"  cried  Abiathar,  con- 
vinced by  his  mother's  look  of  established  disgust.  He 
straddled  about  the  room  in  the  awkwardness  of  his  de- 
light. "  Sufferin'  beeswax  !  What  '11  Cynthy  say  ?" 

"Well,  don't  go  to  cackin'  all  over  the  range  like  ye 
was  clean  loony,"  cautioned  his  mother.  "  'N'  now  go 
out  V  tousle  aroun'  with  that  'ere  wood -pile  a  while 
afore  dinner  'n'  see  how  much  o'  it  ye  kin  git  on  top  of. 
Cynthy's  a  pie-faced  fool,  'n'  if  it  wa'n't  't  I'm  yer 
mother,  ye'd  be  but  little  better ;  'n'  it  'ud  be  a  shame  to 
spile  two  fam'lies  with  sech  truck,  if  I  do  say  it  myself. 
It's  better  to  make  one  o'  ye,  'n'  the  world  '11  see  less  o' 
ye.  Come,  be  off !" 

And  Abiathar  skipped  away,  singing  breathlessly : 

"  'My  gal's  from  Baltimore, 
Street-cars  go  by  the  door!'" 

which  finally  merged  into  "  Maggie  Murphy's  Home." 

After  the  harvest  there  was  little  for  the  men  to  do  for 
a  time,  and  Julius  was  a  good  deal  about  the  house.  Mrs. 
Irish  watched  him  above  the  long  strips  of  her  "  wild- 
goose  chase,"  and  wished  she  were  able  to  walk  off  and 


leave  him  and  Emma  together.  She  tried  to  be  patient, 
but  succeeded  only  in  being  alert. 

"  I  d'  know  whether  Emmy  'd  marry  'im  or  not,"  she 
reflected.  "  She  don't  take  on  like  the  marryin'  kind  ; 
she  ain't  a  drooper — she  ain't  a  clinger.  If  I  could  walk 
into  'er  head  'n'  set  down  'n'  take  off  my  things  'n'  stay 
's  long  's  I  like,  I  might  be  able  to  find  out  suthin'  'bout 
'er.  But  as  'tis,  I've  jes'  got  to  leave  the  hull  thing  to 
Providence."  She  had  never  before  realized  the  folly  of 
interference  and  the  futility  of  faith. 

As  for  Julius,  he  found  it  a  difficult  matter  now  to  con- 
fine his  conversation  with  Emma  to  impersonal  topics. 
His  well-centred  nature  had  lost  its  equilibrium  ;  his  self- 
control  was  trickling  away  drop  by  drop  in  the  warmth 
of  his  love,  as  he  had  seen  a  snow-field  melt  and  disap- 
pear before  the  sun.  He  was  aware  of  a  tendency  to  ex- 
plosive speech  which  might  get  the  better  of  him  at  any 
moment.  The  change  from  his  old  simple  self  to  this 
complex  creature  of  opposing  impulses  had  been  gradual 
— at  first  hardly  more  than  an  intelligent  action  of  the 
nervous  system  in  recognition  of  changed  externals.  But 
now  it  had  become  a  living  touch  upon  his  sensibilities. 
He  did  not  comprehend  the  change  —  when  one  does 
comprehend  a  transition,  one  is  seldom  electrified  by  the 
result.  Thus  it  happened  that  Julius  hardly  recognized 
himself  in  love.  He  watched  Emma's  looks  with  an 
eagerness  of  whose  expression  he  was  unaware.  After 
talking  with  her,  he  carried  but  little  of  himself  away. 

Souls  are  magnets ;  they  attract  and  repel.  He  re- 
mained as  much  in  her  sight  as  he  could,  eager,  ecstatic, 
his  thoughts  following  her  aerially,  as  a  bird  plies  its 
wings.  When  alone,  he  fancied  conversations  in  which 


84 


he  would  engage  her,  he  remembered  incidents  which 
would  please  her,  he  elaborated  arguments  in  support  of 
his  beliefs,  lie  did  not  care  to  convert  her  to  his  views 
— the  adoption  of  his  opinions  by  his  friends  was  not  the 
ultimate  turn  of  his  individuality.  He  only  wanted  to  be 
near  her  and  look  upon  her  face. 

The  thought  of  her  followed  him  about  all  his  work. 
She  put  joy  into  everything  he  touched.  While  chop- 
ping wood  in  the  gulch  below  the  house,  he  was  obliged 
to  stop  now  and  then  and  make  his  happiness  audible  in 
an  exhalation.  The  fragrance  of  the  pine  was  delicious ; 
as  he  split  the  log  and  tossed  the  sticks  into  a  pile  for 
the  horses  to  "  snake  "  up  to  the  house  on  the  mud-sled, 
he  felt  like  setting  his  teeth  into  the  sweet  white  grain, 
just  to  taste  how  clean  and  wholesome  the  wood  was.  It 
was  good  only  to  breathe  and  think  and  move  the  mus- 
cles. Who  shall  say  that  the  whole  universe  is  not  a 
partaker  in  our  joys?  It  seemed  to  Julius  the  moun- 
tains looked  less  grim  than  they  used  to  do  in  autumn, 
the  skies  more  friendly.  Beneath  mountain  and  cloud 
beats  the  eager  human  heart,  throbs  the  eager  human  be- 
lief in  the  all-sufficiency  of  love  and  labor.  Mountain 
may  talk  to  mountain,  cloud  to  cloud ;  poets  may  find  in 
such  imaginings  an  anthropomorphism  the  reverse  of  pro- 
fane. But  for  the  man  is  the  passionate  soul  of  events 
to  be  grasped  and  understood,  the  hard,  unsightly  mate- 
rial of  life  to  be  moulded  and  beautified.  After  the  di- 
vine struggle  of  this  world,  will  we  not  feel  lost,  liv- 
ing out  the  colorless  existence  of  angels  —  homesick 
in  the  luminous,  sluggish,  unvarying  atmosphere  of 
heaven  ? 

"Ye're  keepin'  yer  word,  'Biathar?"  the  old  woman 


would  ask,  whenever  she  and  her  younger  son  were  left 

alone. 

"  Yessem,"  would  come  the  answer  in  a  pious  voice. 
"  Do  they  ever  seem  to  be  talkin'  quiet-like  together  ?" 
"  No ;  she  shins  right  out 's  soon  's  ever  she  sees  'im 

comin',  'less  they  's  some  'un  else  aroun'. " 

"  I've   noticed   it  myself,"  groaned  the  old  woman. 

"  But  ye're  shore  ye're  givin'  'em  a  chance ;  ye're  shore 

ye're  keepin'  still  ?" 

"  Still?     I  ain't  hardly  spoke  to  'er  fer  three  weeks  !" 
"  A  body  'd  make  shore  I'd  swore  Julius  to  silence, 

too,"  the  mother  would  add,  anxiously.    And  she  kept 

on    watching    and    calculating   with   that   perseverance 

which  had  become  the  soul  of  her  life. 

"  Who's  that  new  feller  they've  got  over  to  Bean- 
ston's  ?"  Mrs.  Irish  asked  one  day. 

"  D'  ye  mean  Tom  Taylor?"  was  her  husband's  inter- 
rogative answer. 

"  How  long  's  he  been  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  week  or  so." 

"  Well,  they  say  Cynthy's  perfeckly  becacked  arter 
'im,  'n'  don't  do  nothin'  on  airth  but  set  aroun'  'n'  smirk 
at  'im  from  mornin'  till  night.  Is  he  a  tenderfoot?" 

"  Don't  ye  worry  yourself  'bout  Cynthy,"  responded 
Abiathar,  but  with  a  certain  gloom.  "  Cynthy^s  all  right !" 

"  He's  from  somers  East,"  said  her  husband,  striking 
a  match  on  his  overalls,  and  holding  his  pipe  in  readi- 
ness. He  was  so  accustomed  to  lighting  his  pipe  out-of- 
doors  that  even  in  the  house  he  protected  the  flame  by 
the  hollow  of  his  hand.  "'N'  he  kin  straddle  a  broncho 
like — like  the  devil !  I  seen  'im  on  one  o'  Beanston's 


crack  buckers  yistiddy,  'n'  he  sot  there  's  easy  's  pie. 
Beanston  says  he  allus  gits  there — 'n'  stays  there,  too." 

"  Well,  Cynthy  '11  do  a  smart  chance  o'  carrantin' 
aroun'  arter  'im,  I'll  go  bail — she'd  take  up  with  any- 
thing. I  reckon  she  wears  that  little  doodah  on  'er  hair 
every  day  if  they  's  a  man  aroun'." 

"  That's  a  hairpin,"  corrected  Abiathar,  with  dignity. 
"  'N'  she  sticks  it  on  in  jes'  the  right  place,  'n'  don't  ye 
fergit  it !" 

The  old  woman  did  not  answer.  She  was  not  in  a 
state  of  mind  to  feel  easy  about  the  arrival  of  any  man 
in  the  vicinity  of  Cloud  Mountain.  In  that  country  men 
had  been  known  to  propose  at  first  sight  to  plainer  girls 
than  Emma  Webster,  and  be  accepted,  too.  Mrs.  Irish 
had  faith  in  Julius  as  long  as  there  were  no  rivals. 

"  He's  one  o'  the  best  broncho-busters  I  ever  seen," 
continued  Mr.  Irisb,  between  leisurely  whiffs  at  his  pipe. 
"  The  one  I  seen  'im  tackle  was  a  red-headed  terror — ye 
'member  the  one  they  call  Roarer,  Julius? — 'n'  I  never 
seen  nothin'  like  the  way  he  went  at  it,  not  even  up  to 
Beacham's  in  the  early  days.  The  critter  jes'  nachelly 
stood  up  on  his  tail  'n'  throwed  hisself,  'n'  there  sot 
Taylor,  comftable  's  Moses  in  the  bulrushes,  a-grinnin' 
at  the  beast  'n'  encourggin'  it  to  keep  it  up.  Arter- 
wards  he  rode  it  round  the  corral  at  full  tilt  'n'  swung 
hisself  out  o'  the  saddle  'n'  picked  up  a  bowie-knife  't 
had  been  stuck  in  the  ground." 

Emma  Webster  looked  up  from  her  sewing  by  the 
window. 

"  I  knowed  a  man  wunst  't  could  pick  up  a  knife  like 
that,"  she  said.  "  It  was  back  home.  But  his  name 
wa'n't  Taylor." 


87 


"  Goin'  to  stay  with  Bcanstons  long  ?"  queried  the  old 
woman. 

"  Till  spring.  He  says  he'd  ruther  stay  there  V  go 
a-rawhidin'  aroun'  Donhaly  City — it's  more  in  his  line. 
I  reckon  he  aims  to  go  into  stock  on  his  own  hook  's 
soon  's  he  kin  git  turned  aroun'.  They  's  a  range  up 
'bove  Baumgardener's  't  he's  got  his  eye  on.  He  seems 
to  have  plenty  o'  wads." 

Emma  Webster  was  bending  low  over  her  work.  The 
sunset  was  melting  slowly  into  the  gray  sky,  and  there 
was  no  color  of  any  sort  in  the  air  beyond  her.  The 
light  was  too  dim  to  see  by,  but  she  sewed  on  atten- 
tively. 

"What  does  he  look  like?"  she  inquired,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Good  Lord!  she's  interested  a'ready,"  thought  the 
old  woman. 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  a  woomarn  'ud  call  'im  a  han'some  figger 
o'  a  man,"  said  the  ranchman,  placidly.  "  I  ain't  no 
good  at  describin'  folks.  To  me  a  man's  a  man,  'n'  a 
woomarn's  a  woomarn,  'n'  if  I  try  to  make  more  out  o' 
'em,  I  lose  my  grip."  He  yawned  slightly.  "  Noticed 
how  fat  I  been  gittin'  lately,  Melissy  ?  That  comes  o' 
yer  jawin'  less  'n  ye  useter  afore  Emmy  come.  Ye  kin 
go  a-gamblin'  on  it,  they  ain't  no  kind  o'  grub  o'  any 
sort — garden  truck  or  store  truck — 't  's  half  so  fattenin' 
's  peace !" 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  The  fire  burned  with 
a  sputtering,  stammering  sound.  The  light  grew  dim- 
mer, but  did  not  fade  out.  Twilight  under  these  high 
horizons  hangs  on  like  a  woman  in  poor  health.  The 
mists  shifted;  the  wind  in  the  pines  intoned  monoto- 


nously  like  one  doomed  to  a  dismal  penance.  A  long 
procession  of  colorless  clouds  went  streaming  upward 
past  the  window  as  if  following  in  the  train  of  the  dead 
sun. 

"  Wa'n't  that  a  drop  or  two  o'  rain  't  struck  the 
winder?"  inquired  the  old  man. 

Emma  took  no  notice. 

"  It's  wonderful  how  the  rain  's  held  off  this  fall,"  he 
continued.  "  When  it  does  come,  the  snow  won't  be  fur 
behind  it." 

"Light  the  candles,  'Biathar,"  commanded  the  old 
woman.  "  Land,  don't  work  over  them  ole  overalls  no 
longer,  Emmy.  Ye'll  put  out  yer  eyes." 

Emma  did  not  answer. 

"  Was  he  dark  or  light  ?"  she  inquired,  bending  still 
lower  over  her  sewing. 

"  Dark  's  the  devil !"  burst  forth  Abiathar,  as  he 
struck  a  light.  "'N'  I  wish  't  he  was  with  'im  —  so 
there !" 

Emma  laid  aside  her  sewing  hastily. 

"  I'll  fetch  the  water  fer  supper,"  she  said,  taking  the 
pail  from  the  bench  by  the  door. 

"  No  ;  let  me,"  said  Abiathar.    "  That's  my  work." 

"  Well,  let's  go  together,  then,"  she  answered.  And 
they  left  the  room. 

The  wind  had  ceased,  and  the  pines  were  still.  The 
silence  was  tense  with  the  strain  of  emptiness  which 
pervades  space.  The  canon  beneath  them  was  black  as 
death.  At  noonday  a  transient  gleam  of  the  sun  had 
wavered  fitfully  over  its  gray  rocks  and  gloomy  pines, 
and  had  seemed  glad  to  quit  a  scene  which  was  almost 
like  the  nether  world. 


"  I'm  shore  I  felt  a  sprinkle,"  declared  Abiathar,  ex- 
tending his  hand,  palm  upward.  "Yes — there  'twas 
ag'in."  He  examined  the  clouds  carefully,  and  noticed 
the  direction  of  the  wind.  "  'Twon't  come  this  way, 
this  time,  though.  But  look  over  on  Donhaly  Mountain." 
He  pointed  towards  the  mighty  peak  whose  summit 
seemed  to  move  as  it  spun  out  the  rain  from  its  mighty 
distaff  of  clouds.  "  They  's  some  style  about  the  rain  up 
there !" 

As  he  stooped  over  the  spring,  Emma  said,  in  a  strained 
voice. 

"  Did  he  have  a  scar  on  his  forrid,  'Biathar — this  Tom 
Taylor,  I  mean — a  big  purple  scar  on  his  left  temple, 
clost  up  to  his  hair?" 

"No,  I'm  shore  he  didn't.  Or  if  he  did,  I  couldn't 
see  it — his  hair  's  so  long.  Why  is  it,  d'  ye  reckon,  't 
wimmin  go  wild  over  long  black  hair?" 

She  was  gazing  out  over  the  darkening  foot-hills  with 
unseeing  eyes.  A  surge  of  cloud  broke  over  the  pines 
and  against  the  mountains,  as  cold  and  gray  and  heavy 
as  the  breakers  of  the  North  Sea. 

"  I  didn't  know  they  did,"  she  answered,  absently. 

"  Cynthy  does,"  declared  Abiathar,  with  a  groan. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A  MAN'S  love  begins  as  a  sentiment,  but  soon  broadens 
into  a  system  of  philosophy. 

"  What's  wimmin  V  men  made  fer  if  not  to  keer  fer 
each  other?"  Julius  argued  with  himself.  "What's  men 
strong  fer  if  not  to  look  out  fer  the  weak  ?  'N'  what's 
wimmin  weak  fer  if  not  to  be  looked  out  fer  ?  It's  flyin' 
in  the  face  o'  Nater  to  go  on  this  way.  I  b'lieve  Emmy 
Webster  keers  fer  me — I  b'lieve  she  does !  'N'  if  she 
does,  she's  got  to  own  up  to  it — I  won't  let  her  fight  me 
off!" 

But  she  was  so  mildly  firm,  so  appealingly  repellent, 
that  his  resolve  always  weakened  when  he  approached 
her.  He  could  not  force  himself  into  that  sacred  wom- 
an's world,  from  which  her  affection  and  fear  looked 
forth  so  timidly.  She  defeated  his  most  savage  resolves 
by  a  mere  lifting  of  the  eyes ;  he  could  not  realize  the 
strength  of  her  weakness  till  afterwards,  when  he  had 
time  to  think  it  over.  But  new  hopes  sprang  out  of 
each  defeat,  and  in  his  meditations  he  flattered  himself 
by  the  imaginary  facilities  of  future  opportunities. 

"  I  could  be  so  happy  with  'er !"  he  often  thought — 
"  so  happy  'n'  good !"  In  his  mind  happiness  was  al- 
ways associated  with  goodness.  His  ideal  future  was  an 
extended  landscape  pervaded  by  his  ideal  self. 

He  frequently  took  himself  to  task  for  the  weakness 
which  made  him  a  feeble  lay-figure-  for  her  to  hang  her 


91 


caprices  upon.  It  was  caprice — he  was  sure  of  it — ex- 
cept when  her  eyes  looked  her  woman's  reasons  into  his. 
He  thought  bitter  things  of  her  in  his  moments  of  re- 
sentment and  pique.  Was  she  playing  with  him — hold- 
ing him  at  arm's-length — just  to  see  what  he  would  do  ? 
He  had  once  attended  a  masked  ball  at  Donhala  City. 
Was  she  like  one  of  those  capering  figures,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  being  hidden  while  others  were  in  plain  sight? 
He  could  believe  anything  in  a  general  way  of  the  com- 
plex vanity  of  woman.  But  Emma ! — so  gentle,  so  dep- 
recating, so  kind  ! — the  thought  of  coquetry  in  connec- 
tion with  her  made  him  ashamed ;  and  in  her  presence 
he  atoned  for  his  ungenerous  thoughts  by  new  yieldings 
to  the  silence  which  her  eyes  begged  of  him. 

"  I've  got  to  sober  myself  down  V  think  this  thing 
out.  It's  fer  her  good,  jes'  's  much  's  mine.  If  I  un- 
derstood 'er  reasons  fer  actin'  so —  But  there !  if  a  man 
understood  causes  perfeckly,  he'd  be  able  to  shy  aroun' 
all  the  mis'ries  o'  life.  This  'ere  secret  o'  hern,  now — 
what  is  it?  Nothin'  so  turble,  I'll  swear.  She  's  let 
'er  conscience  make  a  mountain  out  o'  it — that  conscience 
o'  hern  could  do  anything.  Well "  (with  a  slow  grimace 
of  despair),  "  I  don't  see  no  way  fer  it  but  to  jump  right 
at  'er  afore  she  has  a  chance  to  look  at  me,  V  make  'er 
own  up.  I  never  '11  be  able  to  git  it  out  o'  her  if  she  has 
a  look  at  me  fust !" 

"  Marm  's  so  durn  glum  these  days !"  Abiathar  com- 
plained. "  She  sets  aroun'  like  the  las'  rose  o'  Sharon, 
mumpin'  from  mornin'  till  night.  I  wonder  what's  come 
over  'er?" 

"  You  jcs'  'tend  to  Cynthy  Beanston  V  sech-like  shal- 
ler  truck  't  ye  kin  understan',"  retorted  his  mother. 


92 


"I've  noticed  it  myself  more  'n  ever,"  declared  Mr. 
Irish.  "  What's  the  matter,  Melissy  ?  Ye  don't  jaw 
with  half  the  sperrit  ye  useter.  I  reckon  ye  better  let 
Emmy  fix  ye  up  a  dose  o'  hop  tea.  Yer  liver  's  out  o' 
whack."  . 

"  Liver  !"  snorted  the  old  woman.  "  Hop  tea  !  It's 
the  hull  spinal  column  o'  this  'ere  fam'ly  't  's  out  o' 
whack ;  what  we  need  is  backbone,  'n'  they  ain't  no 
med'cine  in  Collyraydo  't  kin  make  it.  Lord,  Lord,  what 
a  world!  —  holler,  all  holler  clean  through;  all  crusts 
'thout  intervenin'  pie.  Come !  they  's  plenty  o'  room  out- 
doors ;  let's  all  go  off  'n'  heave  rocks  at  ourselves.  I'd 
like  to  slap  'n'  poke  suthin',  I  would !  I  wish  't  'Biathar 
was  a  kid  ag'in — wouldn't  I  put  the  dingbats  on  'im? 
But  as  'tis — well,  they  ain't  no  comfort  in  life,  nohow !" 

"  Oh,  come,  mother  !"  expostulated  Mr.  Irish.  "  Sprink 
up — sprink  up  'n'  be  gay  !  Ye  can't  expect  everything 
to  be  jes'  so — no  rose  'thout  bugs  in  this  world,  ye  know. 
If  we  don't  take  things  as  we  find  'em,  they'll  take  us  as 
they  find  us,  'n'  that's  a  darn  sight  wuss.  Leave  wor- 
ryin'  to  fat  folks,  Melissy.  We  kin  'tend  to  that.  The 
trouble  is,  ye'd  like  to  set  aroun'  with  yer  nose  allus 
stuck  into  a  bokay.  That's  what  life  'ud  mean  if  we 
allus  got  things  to  suit  us." 

The  old  woman  glared  at  him  with  withering  con- 
tempt, then  turned  to  Emma. 

"Do  set  down  a  minute,  child,  'n'  rest.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  I'd  have  to  make  the  hop  tea  fer  you,  if  ye 
keep  on  palin'  'n'  thinnin'  out.  Ye've  been  like  'nother 
gal  lately.  What's  the  matter?" 

"I  ain't  been  quite  myself,"  Emma  confessed,  in  a 
low  voice. 


"  Ye've  been  workin'  too  hard,"  said  the  old  woman, 
anxiously.  "  Hadn't  I  better  send  over  fer  Cynthy  fer  a 
week  or  two  ?  She'd  be  tickled  to  death.  'N'  wouldn't 
'Biathar  have  a  fit — V  wouldn't  I  !" 

"  No,  don't  send  fer  'er.  I'll  be  all  right  by  mornin'. 
Wait !" 

"  Yes,  it's  nothin'  but  wait,  wait,  wait  on  this  ranch," 
grumbled  the  old  woman  to  herself.  "  Why  don't  I  do 
suthin',  anyhow,  stidder  settin'  up  'ere  like  a  bump  on  a 
log  while  Julius  'n'  that  gal  go  to  rack  'n'  ruin  afore  my 
face  'n'  eyes?  I'd  better  spile  the  bizness  to  wunst  'n 
to  have  it  hangin'  on  like  this.  The  preachers  may  git 
up  'n'  howl  'bout  folks  lovin'  theirselvcs  better  'n  other 
folks,  but  if  they  never  hated  theirselves  wuss  'n  other 
folks,  they  never  had  my  opportunities — that's  all !" 

The  very  next  morning  Abiathar  came  to  the  door 
mysteriously. 

"  Marm !"  he  called,  in  a  stage  whisper. 

The  old  woman  gave  an  impatient  switch  to  her 
skirts. 

"  Well,  out  with  it !"  she  said. 

"  Emmy's  churnin' !"  The  importance  of  his  tone  was 
singularly  at  variance  with  his  information. 

"  Go  mend  yer  head  !"  snapped  his  mother.  "  Emmy 
allus  churns  o'  Wednesdays  !" 

"  But  Jule  's  sneakin'  up  on  'er  from  the  back  way," 
continued  Abiathar,  leaning  far  forward. 

The  old  woman  sunk  in  slowly  at  the  waist,  and  set- 
tled back  in  her  chair. 

"  I  seen  'im  come  up  'n'  peek  inter  the  shed  to  make 
shore  she  was  there,  'n'  then  he  stopped  outside  to  brace 
up.  He'll  be  there  in  a  minute!"  He  chuckled  thickly. 


(J4 


"  They'll  be  lallygaggin'  wuss  'n  Cynthy  'n'  me  nex'  thing 
ye  know  !" 

"That's  right — laff  'n'  show  yer  ign'rance,"  snarled 
the  old  woman.  "  If  ye  had  the  sense  o'  fishworras — 
But  lookee  here  !"  She  suddenly  sat  erect. 

"  Marm  ?" 

"  Don't  marm  me,  but  scrape  yer  wits  together  'n'  do 
what  I  tell  ye.  Move  my  cheer  over  there,  so  't  I  kin 
peek  out  inter  the  shed — 'n'  bring  my  piece-work,  so  't 
I  kin  look  busy.  'N'  do  it  quick  !"  Mrs.  Irish  had  made 
it  a  rule  of  her  life  to  see  things  for  herself.  Hidden 
matters  were  to  her  the  source  of  untoward  surmises. 
She  was  one  of  those  literal -minded  spectators  of  the 
drama  of  life  who  permit  nothing  to  their  own  imagina- 
tions, and  resent  it  if  an  actor  now  and  then  leaves  a  point 
to  hazard.  If  Julius  and  Emma  were  to  make  fools  of 
themselves,  it  followed  from  the  acquired  habits  of  many 
years  that  she  must  know  precisely  how  they  did  it.  Of 
those  finer  points  of  ethics  which  develop  delicacy  of 
feeling  she  was  as  ignorant  as  she  was  of  Volapiik  or 
Hebrew. 

Emma  Webster  was  bending  wearily  over  the  churn. 
The  open  door  made  a  luminous  blue  oblong  beyond  her. 
A  little  way  down  the  mountain  a  leafless  thicket  of  cot- 
ton woods  stirred  stiffly  in  the  wind.  Beyond  the  canon 
the  slopes  of  the  foot-hills,  with  their  undergrowth  of 
stunted  evergreen,  looked  black  as  if  dusted  with  plum- 
bago. 

There  was  a  certain  sadness  in  the  aspect  of  things — 
the  very  air  seemed  conscious  of  the  solemn  presence  of 
autumn.  The  mountains,  too,  were  feeling  the  change, 


95 


and  wore  a  drawn,  convulsed  look,  like  the  upturned, 
tearful  faces  of  women.  The  clematis  draped  the  rocks 
by  the  spring  like  funereal  wreaths  above  a  mossed  head- 
stone. The  whole  world  seemed  preparing  for  death. 

Emma  Webster  had  awakened  that  morning  with  a 
leaden  weight  at  her  heart  which  had  been  counteractive 
to  her  very  prayers.  The  common  need  of  humanity  for 
an  individual  love  and  sympathy,  the  woman's  craving  for 
a  personal  happiness,  something  more  intimate  than  the 
uplooking  piety  of  the  creature  for  the  Creator,  was  mak- 
ing itself  felt  in  her  with  the  relentless  energy  of  phys- 
ical pain.  Was  it  but  a  passing  mood — an  alternation  of 
despair  with  hope,  such  as  somehow  maintains  the  trem- 
ulous equipoise  of  life  ?  Could  she  not  fix  her  thoughts 
on  the  hereafter,  and  be  content  with  its  promises  ?  God 
had  given  man  dominion  over  every  created  thing  but 
himself ;  why  had  He  stopped  there  ?  Why  had  He  not 
given  her  the  strength  of  will  to  do  the  right  after  know- 
ing it — the  force  of  conviction  which  acts  without  com- 
plaint as  conscience  dictates  ?  The  faith  which  had  hith- 
erto supported  her  steps  as  a  staff  seemed  all  at  once  to 
have  been  snatched  away,  and  she  found  herself  tottering 
feebly.  Should  she  confess  her  whole  past  to  Julius,  and 
let  that  be  her  answer  to  his  love  ?  That  would  answer 
it,  surely — with  death.  But  she  could  not  bring  herself 
to.that  just  yet.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  might 
condone  her  sin,  and  love  her  more  than  ever.  If  she 
were  to  die,  and  he  were  to  find  out  the  truth,  he  might 
forgive  her ;  but  living,  never !  Death  is  a  free  dispenser 
of  pity  and  charity,  but  life  is  inexorable,  and  holds  us 
with  unvarying  strictness  to  the  consequences  of  our 
deeds. 


The  sadness  of  the  thought  urged  the  slow  tears  to  her 
eyes.  It  was  all  so  desolate,  so  wide  of  the  happiness 
which  might  have  been  hers !  She  gazed  out  along  the 
solemn  mountains  in  a  mute  appeal  for  consolation.  The 
landscapes,  narrowed  though  they  were  by  towering  sum- 
mits, always  gave  her  an  idea  of  the  immensity  of  space. 
They  overawed  and  silenced  her  troubles ;  in  their  pres- 
ence she  felt  herself  truly  but  an  atom  in  immensity. 
They  made  material  the  immutability  of  God ;  here  He 
was  the  Great  Silence,  and  all  things  were  His  thoughts, 
visibly  expressed.  Here  she  could  shift  her  conscious- 
ness from  the  subjective  of  personal  emotion  to  the  ob- 
jective of  broad  comprehension,  and  become  a  part  of 
Nature's  stupendous  calm,  regarding  the  world  as  the 
rocks  and  forests  do,  with  the  established  indifference 
which  comes  of  a  prolonged,  impersonal  contemplation 
of  the  Infinite. 

But  this  morning  the  mountains  brought  no  calm. 
Self  presented  its  claims  with  importunate  clamorings 
and  would  not  be  put  off.  Her  capacity  for  happiness 
seemed  as  great  as  the  sea  ;  she  was  hungry  for  a  near, 
human  affection  which  should  fill  and  satisfy ;  and  the 
conviction  that  her  lot  must  be  a  loveless  exception  to 
the  rule  of  human  happiness — an  exception  of  absti- 
nence and  self -repression — darkened  her  soul  with  a 
weary  dread  which  her  very  religion  made  more  gloomy. 

In  this  mood  Julius's  voice  fell  upon  her  ear  like  the 
voice  of  fate. 

"  Emmy  !"  he  called. 

She  turned  with  a  gesture  of  surprise  and  dread.  The 
dasher  descended  slowly. 

"  Why !"  she  said,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice.    "  Julius  !" 


97 


"  Ye're  s'prised  to  see  me  ?" 

"  I — I  reckoned  ye  was  down  to  the  lower  barn,"  she 
said,  faintly. 

"  I  was.  But  a  feller  has  intervals  o'  bizness.  They 
ain't  nothin'  urgent  this  mornin'.  'N'  I  knowed  'twas 
clmrnin'-day." 

The  dasher  recommenced  its  soft  rhythm,  and  the 
splayed  mouth  of  the  churn  made  eager,  gulping  noises 
as  if  enjoying  the  taste  of  the  rich  yellow  cream. 

"  What  was  ye  thinkin'  of  ?"  he  inquired.  He  drew 
nearer,  leaning  one  thin,  muscular  shoulder  against  the 
door-post  and  watching  her  gravely.  "  Yer  eyes  didn't 
look  like  they  seen  anything  outside  o'  yerself." 

"  I  was  lookin'  innards,"  she  confessed. 

"  'N'  what  did  ye  find  to  trouble  ye  ?" 

"  Did  I  look  troubled  ?" 

"  Ye  surely  did  !?' 

She  gazed  beyond  him  with  an  effort  in  her  eyes,  as 
if  trying  to  rectify  her  sight.  She  must  keep  her  real 
thoughts  from  him  at  any  cost.  If  he  were  even  to  sus- 
pect the  whole  truth,  he  would  hate  and  despise  her  for- 
ever. Her  eyes  wandered  along  the  purple  foot-hills,  and 
thence  to  the  canon  just  below  the  house. 

"  I  was  thinkin',"  she  answered  after  a  moment,  "  how 
the  willers  is  all  turned  yaller  along  the  crick,  V  the 
wild  duck  has  begun  to  fly  south.  'N'  a  coyote  was 
yelpin'  jest  above  the  corral,  'n'  its  noise  made  echoes 
from  the  high  cliffs  beyend." 

"  Yes,  the  fall's  reely  here  ag'in.  Yistiddy,  up  to  the 
Bashan  Hills,  I  run  into  a  little  snow-storm — hard  little 
wads  o'  snow,  rattlin'  down  like  a  deluge  o'  rice-grains. 
The  cattle  '11  have  to  be  drove  down  from  the  foot-hills 


'fore  long.  The  ice  was  thick  'long  the  edges  o'  the 
crick  this  mornin'.  'N'  the  other  day  I  seen  two  herd  o' 
deer  film1  'long  the  canon  a  mile  b'low — ye  know  the  si- 
lent way  they  have  o'  trailin'  along,  one  arter  the  other  ? 
They  was  thirty  in  one  herd  'n'  thirty  -  seven  in  the 
other.  That  was  purty  good  fer  one  day,  even  in  these 
parts." 

But  it  was  impossible  to  go  on  like  that.  We  cannot 
hide  our  thoughts — our  very  efforts  at  concealment  are 
ill-considered  disclosures.  A  sudden  perception  of  the 
childishness  of  this  pretence  flashed  through  Julius.  He 
settled  back  more  firmly  against  the  door-post,  and  faced 
her  aggressively.  Then,  with  a  sudden  upgiving  of  his 
whole  soul  to  his  dominant  emotion,  he  flung  himself 
away  from  the  door. 

"  Look  at  me,  Emmy  !"  he  commanded,  in  a  tone  of 
assumption  and  mastery. 

She  hung  her  head,  then  obeyed  with  a  fluttering  of 
the  eyelids. 

"  Straight  —  straight !"  he  cried.  "  I  ain't  seen  ye 
square  in  the  face  fer  a  week." 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  she  helpless,  he 
triumphant. 

"  Stop  churnin',"  he  went  on. 

She  gazed  at  him  appealingly,  the  dasher  suspended. 

"I'm  goin'  to  go  on  with  what  I  begun  to  say  that 
day  by  the  spring.  I  know  ye  won't  like  it — ye've 
showed  plain  'nough  't  ye  want  me  to  keep  still.  If  I 
was  a  stick  or  a  stone  I'd  obey  ye,  too ;  but  bein'  a  man, 
'n'  bavin'  the  feelin's  o'  a  man,  I've  got  the  right  to 
speak." 

"  The  right «" 


"  The  power  to  speak  gives  me  the  right." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  breath  came  quickly,  and 
her  hands  trembled. 

"  Well !  it's  jes'  like  'tis  to  a  round-up  in  the  spring.  If 
I  have  to  be  in  a  hurry  in  gittin'  to  a  certain  p'int,  I  use 
the  spurs  ;  it's  what  they're  fer.  'N'  that's  what  my  per- 
severance is  fer — that's  what  it's  a-doin'  now.  If  I  don't 
push  this  thing,  who  will?  Heaven  won't  send  a  merry- 
cle.  It's  fer  me  to  do  it.  'N'  if  ye  hate  me  fer  it,  I'll 
have  to  stan'  it.  I  can't  keep  still.  Mebbe  I  ain't  per- 
lite — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  wa'n't.  I  ain't  a  bloodless 
skel'ton  't  kin  grin  'n'  grin,  no  matter  what  comes  up. 
I'm  human — 'n'  I'm  talkin'  to  a  human.  Ye've  got 
hearin'  'n'  feelin'.  Oh,  I  know  ye'd  ruther  I'd  keep  still 
— I  know  ye  would.  'N'  I  have  kep'  still  —  ye  must 
a-seen  how  I  held  myself  in.  Well,  I've  earned  the  right 
to  speak  now." 

She  was  recovering  herself  a  little.  "  It  don't  foller  't 
I've  earned  the  right  to  hear  ye,"  she  said. 

He  pondered  her  words  for  a  little  time. 

"  D'  ye  mean — "  he  began. 

"  I  mean  I  ain't  got  the  right  to  hear  ye." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  That  I  can't  tell  ye." 

"  Yes ;  ye  have  got  the  right  to  hear  me — it's  be- 
come a  part  o'  yer  duty  in  these  days  we've  been  to- 
gether, fer  I've  been  a  happy  man  in  the  thought  o'  ye, 
Emmy  Webster.  Ye've  been  like  the  sunshine  about 
me — sunshine  't  could  look  'n'  speak.  Ye've  made  me 
want  to  be  a  good  man." 

"  Ye  was  good  afore,  I'll  be  boun',"  she  said  in  a  low 
tone. 


100 


"  Ob,  it  was  d  if  rent.  Ye've  put  a  meanin'  into  every- 
thing. See  here  !"  He  felt  in  his  vest-pocket  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  drew  out  a  soiled  newspaper  cutting.  "Ye 
'member  the  newspaper  't  was  wrapped  round  yer  things 
when  ye  come  to  Cloud  Mountain?  Well — I  cut  that 
out.  Read  it." 

She  took  it  and  read  a  marked  paragraph  in  the  iden- 
tical column  of  "  Gems  of  Thought "  which  had  attracted 
her  attention  as.  she  sat  by  the  river  eating  her  breakfast 
that  morning  after  her  arrival  at  Donhala  City  : 

"  Make  thy  present  regal,  that  in  future  thy  past  may 
be  regal ;  so  shalt  thou  some  day  be  as  a  private  citizen 
owning  the  palace  of  many  kings." 

She  handed  back  the  bit  of  paper  in  silence. 

"  I  read  that,  'n'  it  struck  me  all  of  a  heap.  I  said 
to  myself,  '  She'd  like  a  man  't  lived  up  to  that.  She 
brought  it  to  me — I'll  live  up  to  it.'  'N'  I've  tried.  It's 
been  the  greatest  joy  o'  my  life  to  wonder  what  ye'd  like 
me  to  be,  'n'  then  try  to  be  jes'  so.  Why,  see  !  I  never 
loved  'nother  woomarn,  Emmy — I  reckon  they  ain't 
'nother  great  strappin'  feller  like  me  in  Collyraydo  't 
kin  say  that.  Well,  that  ain't  no  great  credit  to  me — 
I  had  to  wait  fer  ye.  It  was  Nater  a-guidin'  me.  I 
ain't  one  o'  the  sort  't  go  a-fishin'  in  all  waters  'n'  is  sat- 
isfied with  whatever  they  kin  ketch.  Love's  a  matter 
o'  choice  with  me,  'n'  the  choice  wunst  made  is  made 
ferever." 

"  God  help  ye,  then !"  said  Emma  Webster,  under 
her  breath. 

"  Why,  see  what  my  idee  o'  happiness  useter  be,"  he 
went  on,  without  hearing  her.  "  I  useter  say  to  mother, 
'  The  happiest  man  's  the  one  't's  trained  hisself  never 


101 


to  be  lonesome.'  'N'  I  tried  to  live  up  to  it — I  did  live 
up  to  it.  My  lonely  life  on  the  range  made  some  sech 
text  ne'sarv,  to  keep  me  from  goin'  insane.  I  didn't 
want  to  be  in  love — I'd  read  somers  in  a  almanac  't  the 
birth  o'  passion  is  the  death  o'  prudence,  V  I  b'lieved 
it.  All  I  wanted  was  stren'th  added  to  stren'th  in  my- 
self. I  read  what  books  I  could — they  was  mighty  few 
— V  they  kep'  my  thoughts  a-goin'.  It  was  good  's  fur 
's  it  went.  I  watched  the  cowboys,  I -listened  to  'em 
talkin'  together,  tellin'  things  'bout  theirselves  't  'ud 
a-shamed  the  devil,  servin'  their  passions  as  they  never 
thort  o'  servin'  God.  I  int'rested  myself  in  things,  'n' 
that  suited  me  better.  Sometimes  the  beauty  o'  some 
p'int  o'  rocks,  or  mebbe  a  little  bunch  o'  flowers  in  one 
o'  the  gulches  'ud  come  over  me  all  to  wunst — I  dunno 
how  'twas,  but  fer  a  minute  I  felt  like  suthin'  sharp  'd 
struck  me  in  the  eye,  'n'  I  had  to  turn  away  till  I  got 
over  it.  But  by-'n'-by  I  could  see  clearer,  'n'  I  knowed 
it  was  a  glimpse  o'  God  't  I'd  ketched — a  Spirit 't  was 
everywhere,  workin'  as  Law.  Oh,  I  learned  't  they  ain't 
nothin'  in  this  'ere  world  't  a  man  can't  make  instruc- 
tive— 'twon't  lead  straight  to  Him,  if  ye'll  let  it;  but 
I  missed  suthin',  I  needed  suthin'.  Now  I  know  what 
'twas — 'twas  you!  'N'  now  things  is  so  dif'rent — so 
dif'rent !  God  's  in  'em  still,  Emmy — but  so  be  you  !  I 
love  ye,  Emmy.  I'm  lonesome  'n'  helpless  'thout  ye.  I 
see  all  the  good  o'  the  world  through  yer  eyes — all  the 
hopes  o'  the  future  through  yer  faith.  They  say  't  Love 
opens  the  heart  'n'  shets  the  eyes ;  I  tell  ye,  no !  Love 
gives  a  sixth  sense,  better  'n  all  the  others  put  together — 
the  sense  o'  happiness,  which  is  God's  mcanin'  in  the 
world  !" 


102 


He  was  silent  for  a  little,  breathing  hard.  She  looked 
up  at  him  dumbly,  feeling  the  strain  of  his  mind  be- 
tween conflicting  forces  which  warped  her  own  by  sym- 
pathy like  a  bent  bow. 

"  Don't — don't !"  she  finally  murmured. 

"  It's  fer  me  to  speak  V  you  to  hear !  Why  was  it 
give  to  me  if  I'm  to  hold  it  back  ?  It's  my  happiness 
V  your'n !  Ye  ask  me  to  do  a  impossible  thing.  Ye 
ask  me — " 

"I  ask  ye  to  sep'rate  yer  actions  from  yer  wishes. 
Yes,  a  impossible  thing  fer  a  man  !" 

"  Ye  ask  me  to  sep'rate  my  actions  from  myself — a 
impossible  thing  fer  man  or  woomarn  !  No — no ;  it's  fer 
us  both — you  's  much  's  me.  It's  fer  us  two  'n'  no  one 
else  on  this  airth,  'n'  we  can't  go  'round  hidin'  it  from 
each  other.  Every  time  I  think  o'  ye,  ye  rnus'  know  the 
truth  somehow.  I  love  ye,  Emmy — so  much,  so  much  !" 
His  face  was  suffused  and  eager ;  he  stretched  out  his 
arms,  but  she  shrank  back.  "  How  kin  I  keep  still  when 
they  ain't  nothin'  else  in  my  mind  from  mornin'  till 
night  ?  It's  growed  to  be  the  chief  part  o'  me — it's  con- 
nected with  all  my  thoughts  like  heart  'n'  lungs,  bone 
'n'  muscle.  If  it  was  took  away,  my  life  'ud  foller  it ; 
I'd  be  useless,  anyway.  I'm  so  full  o'  it  I  can't  hold 
it  all,  dear ;  it  runs  over  'n'  changes  the  world.  'N'  the 
world  's  so  dif'rent,  with  my  love  in  it !  I  feel  like  one 
o'  a  brotherhood — the  mountains  'n'  I  understand  each 
other.  My  work  suffers  —  I  ain't  got  no  heart  in  it. 
When  I  sleep,  ye  foller  me,  'n'  then  ye're  allus  kind. 
Not  speak  o'  it  ?  As  well  ask  me  not  to  cry  out  when 
I'm  hurt,  or  do  anything  contrary  to  natcr." 

Julius  knew  as  little  of  rhetoric  as  the  sun  does  of 


astronomy,  but  there  was  a  quickening  power  in  the  di- 
rect manliness  of  his  appeal  which  was  stronger  than 
eloquence.  Emma  dared  not  look  up  at  him.  Some 
joyous  instinct  in  her  heart  applauded  his  confident 
tongue,  his  dominant  will.  She  saw  in  him  her  ideal 
of  manly  strength  and  purpose — her  vision  of  perfec- 
tion which  had  heretofore  been  conjured  up  only  by 
some  chance  word  or  idea.  But  if  she  had  tried  to 
speak,  she  would  have  uttered  a  despairing  cry  of  pain. 

"  Don't  order  me  to  stop,"  he  went  on.  "  I  couldn't 
mind  ye  now — it's  been  gatherin'  in  me  so  long !  See, 
I  ain't  much,  Emmy — I  wish  't  I  was  better ;  but  if  I 
was  the  best  V  wisest  in  the  world,  my  happiness  Yd 
lay  in  your  hands  jes'  the  same.  I  know  what  I'm 
like — I've  been  aroun'  among  ranch  tools  till  I  reckon  I 
don't  look  much  sharper  'n  a  hoe,  'n'  as  fer  manners,  a 
pack-mule  'ud  stan'  'way  above  me  ;  but  I  love  ye  earnest 
'n'  true,  'n'  I'll  stan'  up  to  the  man's  share  o'  the  bur- 
dens 't  fall  on  us.  Ye  b'lieve  me,  Emmy  ?  Ye  b'licve 
I  keer  fer  ye  jes'  so  ?" 

She  put  out  her  hands  as  if  to  push  him  back. 

"  How  kin  I  help  b'lievin'  ?  But  if  it's  true,  ye  mus' 
never  speak  o'  it  ag'in — never !" 

He  drew  himself  together  in  that  attitude  of  mastery 
which  she  dreaded  and  admired. 

"  This  ain't  no  one-sided  affair,"  he  said,  subduing 
his  voice  and  speaking  with  forced  quiet.  "It  don't 
b'long  all  to  you  or  to  me.  Ye  can't  say  what's  fer 
me  to  do,  no  more  'n  I  kin  say  what's  fer  you  to  do. 
The  thing's  fer  both  o'  us,  'n'  we've  got  to  talk  it  out 
together." 

"  But  why,  why  d'  ye  keer  fer  me,  Julius  ?    Why — " 


104 


"  I  don't  know  why  I  keer  fer  ye,  Emmy — no  more  'n 
I  know  why  the  primroses  in  spring  is  beautiful ;  'tain't 
ne'sary  to  know;  the  reason's  hid,  but  it's  good  all  the 
same.  It  growed  in  me,  jes'  like  the  buds  grow  in  May 
when  the  sun  shines  on  'em  ;  I  couldn't  help  it  'n'  I 
didn't  try.  Why  should  I  ?  Love's  the  one  glory  o' 
livin' — it  blesses  both  the  lover  'n'  the  one  he  loves. 
Why  should  I  fight  agin  the  joy  I  find  in  ye  ?  They  's 
little  'nough  good  in  the  world  at  best,  'n'  to  put  this 
good  thing  out  o'  it,  'ud  be  to  leave  the  world  so  much 
wuss  off,  'n'  me  a  unhappy  man." 

She  answered  nothing.  Her  eyes  were  fastened  un- 
seeingly  upon  the  sun-flooded  world  outside.  The  clouds 
had  settled  into  queer  masses  along  the  foot-hills.  In 
one  place  they  formed  a  long  avenue  down  which  the 
sunbeams  travelled  lightly ;  farther  on  they  lay  in  a  flat 
circular  heap  against  the  slopes  like  the  silver  shield  of 
a  giant.  Below,  in  the  "  open  "  of  the  canon,  the  wa- 
ters dashed  loud  against  the  rocks.  Above  this  echo- 
ing roar  rose  the  music  of  the  pines,  dithyrambic,  in- 
comprehensible— the  cry  of  a  Delphic  Sibyl. 

"See,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  softening  gradually, 
"  they's  two  o'  us — we've  got  to  share  'n'  share  alike. 
Ye  can't  say  I  mustn't  speak ;  I  have  my  rights,  too — 
'n'  that's  one  o'  'em.  'N'  the  feelin'  't  forces  me  to 
speak  puts  ye  under  obligation  to  listen." 

"  I  have  listened,"  she  declared. 

"  Then  I've  convinced  ye  !"  cried  Julius,  with  de- 
cision. 

"  Convinced  me  ?  Yes  !  but  that  don't  change  things. 
Convincin'  ain't  all.  The  world — God  hissclf  's  agin  us, 
Julius !" 


105 


"  They  ain't  unless  we  make  'em  so.  Think  the  world 
V  God  is  fer  us — 'n'  then  they  will  be  !" 

"  If  only  I  hadn't  come  'ere,"  she  murmured. 

"  Yer  comin'  's  a  shore  sign  't  God  'n'  the  world's  on 
our  side!  They  joined  forces  'n'  brought  it  about." 

"  If  only  I'd  a-stayed  in  Donhaly  City — " 

"  I'd  a-found  ye  out,"  Julius  declared,  with  an  op- 
timism worthy  of  the  transcendentalists.  "I'd  a-found 
ye  out  anywheres  'n'  brung  ye  here." 

"  Oh,  ye  don't  know — ye  can't  understan' — " 

"  I  know  I  love  ye — I  understan'  what  ye  mean  to 
me!" 

"  Let  me  go  back — " 

"  Go  away  from  yer  own  happiness  'n'  mine,  Emmy  ? 
No,  no !" 

"  Let  me  go  back  to-morrer  'n'  never  see  yer  face 
ag'in  !  I  tell  ye,  ye  don't  know,  Julius — " 

"  I  know  I'll  never  part  with  ye  o'  my  own  free  will." 

"  But  fer  yer  own  happiness — " 

"  My  happiness  is  where  you  be — I  don't  ask  fer 
nothin'  more." 

Again  they  were  silent,  each  straining  hard  against 
the  mood  of  the  other.  The  noise  of  the  pines  and  the 
water  receded  into  a  vague  background  of  sound.  One 
could  hear  the  childish  lispings  of  the  overflow  from 
the  spring,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  gravel  as  it  rolled 
along  the  shallow  current. 

He  took  up  the  word  again  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  where  you  be,  Emmy — 'n'  why  should  I  look 
further  ?  Happiness  is  here  fer  both  o'  us  ;  the  seeds  o' 
it  is  in  every  man,  all  ready  to  sprout.  Then  God  sends 
the  rain  V  sunshine,  'n'  they're  full-grown  afore  we 


106 


know  it.  That's  the  way  my  happiness  growed  when 
ye  come,  Emmy — ye  was  the  rain  'n'  the  sun  't  brought  it 
up.  'N'  now  ye'd  have  me  kill  it — cut  it  down?  No, 
no !  Come,  let's  be  happy,  us  two !  We  have  the 
chance,  let's  take  it.  What  if  it  should  never  come 
ag'in  ?" 

"  It  never  has  come — it  never  will.  If  ye  was  to  say, 
Let's  be  mis'able  together,  us  two — " 

"  Well,  then,  let's  be  mis'able,  if  that's  what  ye  mean 
by  bein'  together.  What  o'  the  word  ?  Ye  can't  make 
it  do  duty  fer  the  deed.  We'd  be  happy,  happy !  I 
know  what  ye  mean,  Emmy — it's  that  secret  o'  your'n 
't's  preyin'  on  ye.  But  answer  me  one  thing." 

She  looked  at  him,  but  timidly.  His  voice  rang  out 
with  incisive  emphasis. 

"  D'  ye  love  me,  Emmy  ?" 

Her  glance  fell. 

"  Answer  me !" 

"  Don't,  Julius  !"  she  begged. 

"Answer — answer!"  He  beat  his  foot  impatiently 
against  the  door-sill. 

She  faced  him  with  a  sort  of  shrinking  defiance. 

"  Ye  ain't  got  no  right  to  speak  to  me  so,"  she  de- 
clared. "I  won't  answer  —  ye're  goin'  beyend  all 
bounds!" 

"Ye  won't  own  up?" 

"  No !" 

Julius  smiled.  She  had  owned  up  by  her  very  de- 
nial. 

"Could  ye  a-loved  me  if  ye'd  a-met  me  afore  this — 
this  trouble  drove  ye  out  into  the  world  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  beyond  him,  and  a  look  of  weari- 


107 


ness  and  pain  settled  down  upon  her  features — an  ex- 
pression of  dread  which  sees  no  hope. 

"  Don't  ask  me  nothin',''  she  finally  said.  "  They 
ain't  nothin'  I  kin  tell  't  ye  orter  know  !" 

Her  appeal  touched  him,  as  it  must  have  done  any 
man.  But  her  actions  had  spoken  the  whole  truth  for 
her.  Our  affections  are  a  natural  telegraph,  sending 
and  receiving  messages  without  an  effort  of  the  will.  Ju- 
lius smiled  in  a  masterful  way.  She  loved  him !  he  was 
sure  of  it  now.  Temporize  and  evade  as  she  might,  the 
truth  had  been  admitted — he  had  it  in  his  hands.  The 
thought  filled  him  with  exulting  rapture — for  a  moment 
he  had  the  ichor  of  the  gods  in  his  veins.  He  was  ex- 
periencing the  first  great  emotion  of  a  man  who  had 
not  lived  largely  but  well ;  he  was  understanding  for  the 
first  time  that  the  human  may  be  touched  and  thrilled 
by  the  divine. 

He  came  closer,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  not  yet 
done  with  her.  Would  he  insist  upon  a  complete  con- 
fession before  he  would  let  her  alone  ? 

"  Ye  do  love  me,  Emmy  !" 

His  voice  had  lost  its  dominant  ring,  and  was  tender 
and  caressing.  She  did  not  dare  to  look  up  at  him  ;  his 
tenderness  was  more  compelling  than  his  authority. 

"  Ye  b'long  to  me,  Emmy ;  God  made  ye  fer  me,  like 
Eve  fer  Adam.  Tell  me,  d'  ye  keer  fer  me  ?" 

She  turned  her  face  away,  seeing  nothing,  but  thrilled 
by  an  emotion  as  resistless  as  death.  She  heard  him 
move  on  towards  her  and  understood  his  purpose,  but 
had  not  the  power  to  stand  up  and  drive  him  back.  She 
was  spent  and  weak — tremulous  with  the  effort  of  long 
straining  against  his  will.  She  felt  his  outstretched 


108 


arms  before  he  touched  her,  and  a  sensuous  vacancy 
overcame  her  like  a  spell.  "  I  do  love  ye,  Julius — I  do, 
I  do  !"  The  words  were  uttered,  though  she  tried  to 
choke  them  back.  She  made  a  little  involuntary  move- 
ment towards  him ;  it  was  like  flinging  aside  a  chain 
which  she  had  worn  crushed  against  her  flesh ;  then  his 
arms  were  about  her  neck.  The  touch  was  happiness. 
Earth  was  over — heaven  had  begun.  She  sank  delirious- 
ly into  this  new-found  joy,  this  oblivion  in  which  but 
one  emotion  lived.  He  bent  and  kissed  her  lingeringly. 
And  thus  for  a  moment  they  forgot  the  world. 

Only  a  moment,  and  the  enchantment  was  undone. 
She  flung  his  arms  away  from  her  and  tottered  forward, 
laying  her  face  against  her  hands  on  the  door-frame  and 
bursting  into  tremulous  sobs. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Julius,  Julius, 
what  have  I  done  ?" 

"  Made  one  human  critter  happy,"  smiled  Julius. 
"Don't  take  on  so  'bout  it.  Pm  happy.  Why  shouldn't 
you  be,  if  ye  keer  for  me  ?" 

But  she  wept  harder,  and  his  smile  faded  abruptly. 

"  Tell  me  'bout  it,  Emmy,"  he  pleaded — "  tell  me  all 
yer  troubles,  V  let  me  share  'em  with  ye.  Tell  me  this 
thing  't's  wearin'  on  ye  so — I  kin  help  ye,  I  kin  advise. 
It  'il  ease  yer  mind  jes'  to  make  shore  't  some  un  else 
knows  it  V  's  willin'  to  help  ye." 

"  No  one  kin  help  me  !" 

"  The  man  't  loves  ye  kin  help  ye — he  has  the  right. 
Ye  keep  'im  out  o'  the  best  part  o'  his  love  if  ye  ferbid  'im 
a  share  in  yer  troubles.  Ye  b'long  to  'im — yer  troubles 
b'long  to  'im.  Tell  me — tell  me  !" 

"  No — no  !" 


109 


"  I  couldn't  love  ye  more  'n  what  I  do,  Emmy  —  not 
if  we  was  two  angels  clost  up  to  God's  throne.  Why  be 
ye  'fecrd?  I  kin  be  just—" 

"  Yer  justice  'ud  kill  me  !" 

"  I  kin  do  what's  right,  I  kin  see  all  sides  o'  a  thing. 
See,  I'm  a  quiet  man.  Ye  never  seen  me  beside  myself 
— ye  never  seen  my  feelin's  git  on  the  rampage  'n'  rush 
every  which  way  onreasonably.  Ye  ain't  done  nothin' 
't  I  could  be  mad  with  ye  fer,  nohow.  It  was  afore  I 
knowed  ye — what  have  I  to  do  with  gettin'  mad  at  that  ? 
Come,  tell  me !" 

"  I  can't,  Julius !"  was  her  despairing  iteration. 

His  face  glowed  down  at  her,  suffused  with  loving 
triumph. 

"I  want  ye  fer  my  wife,  Emmy  —  I  want  ye,  I  need 
ye,  I  must  have  ye  !" 

She  flung  up  her  hands  with  a  low  moan. 

"  Yes,  my  wife.  Why  not  ?  It's  the  most  nat'ral 
thing  in  life.  A  ride  down  to  Donhaly  City  in  the  wag- 
gin,  the  weddin'  at  the  parson's,  dinner  at  the  Palace,  'n' 
home  ag'in  by  evenin'.  It's  as  easy  as  nater !" 

"  'S  if  that  was  all !" 

"  That  is  all,  V  they  ain't  no  use  o'  making  more  o' 
it.  I've  never  keered  fer  wimmin,  'ceptin'  to  look  at  'em 
acrosst  the  street  to  Donhaly  City  'n'  wonder  what  they 
was  like,  clost  to ;  d'  ye  reckon  I'm  goin'  to  give  ye  up 
jes'  fer  a  whim  ?  But  there  !"  he  added,  his  voice  be- 
coming tender  again  ;  "  don't  cry  so,  Emmy !  Don't 
cry !" 

But  he  did  not  dare  to  approach  her — he  knew  that 
she  would  turn  and  flee.  "  I — I'm  sorry  I  made  ye  feel 
so  bad ;  so  sorry !  But  things  '11  be  better  now.  I 


110 


didn't  aim  to  make  ye  cry  —  surely.  But  I'll  go  now. 
Do  try  to  stop  it,  my  dear.  Ye  don't  know  how  it  goes 
through  me.  See,  I'm  goin'.  Don't  —  don't  cry  no 
more !" 

He  was  gone,  and  she  was  once  more  alone.  Alone ! 
The  word  repeated  itself  in  the  silence.  How  dreary 
were  the  gray  rocks,  the  white  peaks,  the  black  pines ! 
The  autumn  leaves  along  the  slopes  lifted  before  the 
wind  like  spirit  forms;  the  pines  intoned  their  melody 
of  inward  woe ;  the  world  had  grown  more  desolate  than 
Nature  intended ;  the  very  coloring  of  the  mountains 
seemed  laid  on  with  the  studied  effects  of  sorrow. 

When  Abiathar  came  into  the  kitchen  half  an  hour 
later  his  mother's  patchwork  lay  idle  in  her  lap. 

"  Shove  me  back  to  my  ole  place  'fore  either  o'  'em 
comes  in,"  she  commanded,  in  a  whisper.  " '  T  wa'n't 
honorable,  I  know,  to  spy  on  'em,  but  queer  folks  mus' 
be  worked  on  by  queer  methods.  I  reckon  love  's  a  fine 
thing — young  folks  seems  to  think  so  ;  but  it's  got  some 
all-fired  queer  ingreedyents,  I  will  say  that !" 

"What  'd  ye  hear?  What  'd  ye  see?"  questioned 
Abiathar,  half  in  awe. 

"  'Nough  to  make  shore  't  my  younges'  boy  ain't  the 
only  fool  in  this  world,"  answered  his  mother,  in  a  tone 
of  gloom. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  morning  came  when  the  three  men  were  to  set 
out  on  their  journey  to  drive  down  the  herds  from  the 
foot-hills.  Emma  got  breakfast  before  daylight.  After- 
wards she  did  not  at  once  clear  off  the  table  and  wash 
the  dishes.  She  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing 
out  towards  the  corral.  The  day  was  still  young ;  there 
were  blotches  of  red  and  purple  cloud  in  the  east  above 
the  risen  sun ;  the  air  had  the  crisp  freshness  of  day,  be- 
fore the  starch  is  worn  out  of  it.  The  yellow  aspens  here 
and  there  sent  a  flash  across  the  autumn's  brown  decay. 
The  other  vegetation  was  colorless,  except  the  pines, 
which  looked  less  like  trees  than  the  black  shadows  of 
trees ;  the  sagebrush,  ragged  and  worn,  grouped  itself 
into  aimless  little  neighborhoods,  like  troops  of  slatternly 
women.  The  shadows  in  the  gulches  seemed  struggling 
upward  towards  the  light.  A  few  birds  chirped  a  dismal 
matin  service  among  the  leafless  cottonwoods. 

Emma  could  see  Mr.  Irish  and  Abiathar  leaning  against 
the  corral,  absorbed  in  watching  Julius's  movements 
within.  There  was  a  tossing  of  maned  heads,  a  scatter- 
ing of  hoofs,  an  upheaving  of  dust  as  the  horses  plunged 
and  evaded,  scampered  and  reared.  Julius  stood  near 
the  centre  of  the  corral,  strong,  confident,  deliberate. 
He  seldom  used  the  snubbing-post  —  his  strength  and 
skill  together  were  a  match  for  anything.  He  swung  his 
lariat  with  a  wide,  calculating  sweep  which  brought  it 


112 


inevitably  upon  the  head  of  his  victim.  Mr.  Irish  and 
Abiathar  always  left  the  lariating  to  Julius.  A  horse 
might  leap  while  the  noose  was  singing  in  the  air,  but 
Julius  had  estimated  the  movement  beforehand;  the 
rope  fell  easily,  and  was  tightened  with  a  jerk  which 
meant  business.  He  knew  by  instinct  the  force  of  the 
wind  for  or  against  him,  and  the  weight  he  flung  on 
the  rope  when  the  animal  lurched  against  it  was  always 
gauged  by  a  knowledge  of  the  beast's  disposition  and 
strength. 

"  Is  Julius  ropin'  'em  in  now?"  asked  the  old  woman 
from  her  seat  by  the  fire. 

«  Yes." 

*  How  many  's  he  got  ?" 

"  The  hull  three  now." 

"They  ain't  nobody  like  Julius  at  the  lariat!"  cried 
Mrs.  Irish,  breaking  forth  into  praises  of  her  son's 
prowess,  which,  to  an  observer  of  his  skill,  were  the  mere 
pap  of  rhetoric  after  the  meat  of  natural  eloquence. 
Emma  hardly  noticed.  She  was  contrasting  the  three 
men,  who  were  now  adjusting  their  saddles  outside  the 
corral.  A  saying  of  Mrs.  Irish's  came  into  her  mind  and 
formed  a  momentary  basis  of  classification :  "  Eagles  is 
jest  's  nat'ral  in  their  way  's  what'geese  is  in  their'n." 
Among  men  Julius  was  what  the  eagle  is  among  birds, 
the  girl  thought  proudly.  And  he  loved  her ! 

"  Where's  Emmy  ?"  called  Julius,  coming  in  at  the 
last  moment  for  his  blankets. 

"  She  was  there  by  the  winder  a  minute  ago,"  an- 
swered his  mother,  gazing  about  in  wonder. 

Julius  looked  troubled  for  a  moment  and  then  smiled. 

"  No  matter,"  he  said. 


113 


"  Emmy  !  Emmy  !"  called  the  old  woman.  "  Why, 
where  can  she  be  at?" 

"  No  matter  !     I  only  wanted  to  say  good-bye." 

"The  floor  must  a -let  'er  through  —  I'm  shore  she 
didn't  go  to  'er  own  room." 

"  I  seen  'er  shinnin'  out  beyend  the  spring,"  Abiathar 
volunteered.  "  She  was  tippin'  forrard  'n'  runnin'  like 
a  ole  hen  arter  a  grasshopper.  I  yelled  at  'er,  but  she 
kep'  right  on." 

Julius  smiled  more  broadly.  He  understood  why  she 
had  absented  herself.  It  was  to  avoid  saying  good-bye 
in  presence  of  the  others.  He  liked  that.  "  If  I  could  a- 
ketched  'er  alone — "  but  he  had  not  time  just  then  to 
follow  out  that  thought. 

"  Well,  tell  'er  good-bye  fer  me,"  he  said  to  his 
mother,  as  he  left  the  house.  "  Tell  'er  I  was  sorry  she 
didn't  happen  to  be  in." 

The  three  men  rode  up  the  foot-hill  trail,  Julius  at 
their  head.  The  clouds  seemed  going  forth  with  them, 
clad  in  the  golden  mail  of  the  sun.  The  light  lay  heavy 
and  yellow  beyond  the  blackness  of  the  pines ;  the  pur- 
ple concaves  of  the  cliffs  had  a  cool,  saturated  look,  as  if 
water  had  been  dashed  against  them ;  the  air  was  so  still 
that  one  could  hear  the  reluctant  falling  of  the  leaves  in 
the  gulches. 

"  She  does  love  me !"  Julius  said  to  himself.  He  rode 
.on,  dreaming  over  the  book  of  the  future  as  devoutly  as 
a  monk  over  his  storied  page. 

"  Well,  so  much  fer  so  much,"  said  the  old  woman, 
when  the  men  were  gone.  "  The  Lord  knows  whether 
they'll  ever  come  back — I  don't !  It's  most 's  bad  's  the 
round-up  in  the  spring.  Ye  never  kin  tell  what's  goin' 


114 


to  happen.  They  may  be  overtook  by  a  snow-storm,  the 
cattle  may  stampede  V  tromple  'em  to  death — " 

"  They'll  come  back,"  said  Emma,  hastily. 

"  They  allus  have"  the  old  woman  was  obliged  to 
admit. 

"  Do  all  the  ranchers  round  up  their  cattle  in  the  fall?" 
Emma  inquired. 

"  No — most  o'  'em  don't.  Beanstons  don't — nor  Star- 
birds,  nor  Rothschilds.  But  we've  found  it  pays.  If  we 
kin  keep  the  cattle  in  the  gulches  'n'  bottoms  while  the 
snow  's  on,  we  don't  lose  a  quarter 's  many.  It's  warmer 
down  there,  'n'  the  feed  's  better." 

u  But  when  the  grass  is  covered  with  snow — " 

"  Oh,  they  paw  their  way  to  it — trust  'em  fer  that !" 

"  'N'  don't  they  never  wonder  back  to  the  high 
places  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — some  o'  the  fool  critters  allus  does.  But 
most  o'  'em  seem  to  see  't  it's  fer  their  good  to  stay 
where  they're  put.  The  men's  work  in  winter  's  mos'ly 
to  keep  'em  from  strayin'  back  on  the  hills — 'n'  hard 
work  'tis,  too.  But  it's  wuth  the  trouble  'n'  danger, 
Julius  says." 

When  Julius  returned  something  happened  which  his 
imagination  had  never  stretched  to.  As  he  was  passing 
the  rocks  near  the  spring,  a  woman  leaped  out  and  flung 
her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  I'm  so  glad — so  glad  !"  cried  Emma  Webster.  And 
before  he  had  time  to  reach  out  and  clasp  her,  she  had 
disappeared  around  the  corner  of  the  shed. 

"Everything  's  gone  all  right,  I  hope?"  she  said, 
quietly,  giving  him  her  hand  when  they  met  before  his 
mother. 


115 


"  Couldn't  be  better !"  he  answered,  so  meaningly  that 
she  blushed  and  turned  away. 

The  snows  would  soon  be  on,  and  preparations  were 
forward  for  the  last  trip  to  Douhala  City  for  winter  sup- 
plies. A  long  list  of  articles  had  been  made  out  in 
Emma  Webster's  handwriting,  and  Mr.  Irish  and  Abia- 
thar  were  to  make  the  journey.  Julius  was  to  remain 
at  home  and  look  after  the  ranch. 

"  Cynthy  wants  to  go  'long,"  said  Abiathar,  for  whom 
the  occasion  had  the  importance  of  the  last  social  event 
of  the  year.  "  She's  goin'  to  wait  fer  us  down  to  Roths- 
child's bridge.  'N'  her  V  me  's  goin'  to  set  on  the  back 
seat  together — " 

"  'N'  lallygag,"  interrupted  his  mother. 

Abiathar  grinned  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  we  allus  lallygag  when  we  git  together,  me  V 
Cynthy  does.  Lord,  think ! — two  hull  days  o'  it !"  He 
cut  a  caper  and  tumbled  back  against  the  wall. 

"  Well,  keep  yer  hair  on,"  advised  his  mother,  sharply. 
"  I'm  glad  I  won't  have  to  watch  yer  kerflummidoodlin' 
— I  should  go  ravin'  wild.  But  yer  dad  won't  mind." 

"  Oh,  dad  '11  be  too  busy  with  the  jag  o'  his  life  to  think 
o'  any  one  else.  No — he  won't  mind !" 

On  the  evening  before  the  journey  Abiathar  came  to 
Emma  Webster  mysteriously. 

"  He  has  got  a  scar  on  his  forrid,"  he  declared. 

She  faced  him  with  a  wild  look. 

"He?— who?" 

"Ye  'member  ye  ast  me  if  he  had?  'N'  I  told  ye  I 
didn't  know.  But  yistiddy — " 

"  Ye  mean  Reuben — Reuben  Goodell  ?" 


116 


Abiathar  frowned. 

"  I  mean  Tom  Taylor.     Ye  can't  a-fergot  it !" 

"  I  'member  now.  I  'member  I  ast  ye,"  said  Emma,  in 
an  altered  tone. 

Abiathar  puffed  out  his  pimpled  cheeks  as  if  blowing 
a  trumpet,  then  let  out  his  breath  slowly. 

"I  seen  it  when  he  was  washin'  his  mug  down  to 
Beanston's  yistiddy — a  scatterin'  scar,  purple  with  white 
edges.  Looked  like  the  one  Sim  Maccord  useter  have — 
Bloody  Sim  they  called  'im.  His  head  was  cut  open 
with  a  knife  clean  to  the  bone,  'n'  he  got  into  'nother 
scrape  'fore  it  healed  up,  'n'  it  was  tore  open  ag'in,  'n' 
that's  what  made  it  so  jagged.  Tom  Taylor's  looks  like 
that." 

He  was  going  on  at  length,  but  was  startled  by  a  moan- 
ing sound  from  his  companion. 

"  'Biathar,  'Biathar  !"  she  repeated,  faintly,  as  his  eyes 
met  hers.  She  had  sunk  into  a  chair  and  was  pale  to 
the  lips. 

"  Be  ye  sick  ?"  he  asked,  in  alarm. 

She  stared  at  him  dumbly. 

"  Shall  I  call  mother  ?" 

"  No — no  !"  She  lifted  her  arm  over  the  back  of  the 
chair  for  support,  and  presently  sat  erect  with  a  wavering 
movement.  "  There,  now  I'm  better.  I  reckon  I  better 
go  'n'  lay  down  fer  a  spell.  No,  don't  tell  yer  mother." 

"  But  if  ye're  sick — " 

"  I  ain't  sick.  It  ain't  nothin'.  I  hain't  been  quite 
myself  fer  a  while  back — ye've  heerd  me  say  so.  See,  I 
kin  walk  now — I'm  quite  well."  And  she  tottered  away. 

"  Queer,"  murmured  Abiathar.  '*  Darn  queer.  But 
that's  the  way  wimmin  is,"  he  added,  brightly,  in  a  tone 


117 


which  reconciled  all  differences.  And  he  went  out 
through  the  shed,  scraping  his  throat  lustily  with  the 
song,  "  He's  gone,  he's  gone,  he's  gone  to  the  devil  en- 
tirely !" 

When  the  wagon  was  at  the  door,  and  the  dogs  had 
been  shut  up  in  the  shed,  and  the  list  of  purchases  had 
been  traced  with  difficulty  to  the  left  hip-pocket  of  Mr. 
Irish's  overalls  (which  were  to  remain  at  home),  there 
ensued  ten  minutes  of  shrieking  between  Mrs.  Irish  and 
the  occupants  of  the  wagon  before  it  could  be  clearly  es- 
tablished that  nothing  had  been  forgotten.  And  when 
at  last  they  started,  the  old  woman  turned  to  Emma  with 
a  bitter  smile. 

u  D'  ye  know  who  Zury  reckons  is  the  greates'  man  in 
Donhaly  City  ?" 

Emma  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  Joe  Conklin,  what  keeps  the  Stick-in-it  down 
there.  'N'  Zury  worships  great  men.  He  wears  out  the 
knees  o'  his  pants  afore  'em.  Ye'll  see  fer  yerself  to- 
morrer  night,  when  he  gits  home." 

"  Tom  Taylor  '11  be  over  this  arternoon,"  said  Julius, 
lingering  a  moment  before  going  out  to  the  barn. 

"  Tom  Taylor  ?  Who  next  ?  What  fer  ?  Who  wants 
'im?" 

"I  sent  fer  'im  to  look  at  the  red  cayuse.  They's 
suthin'  the  matter  with  the  left  forrard  foot  't  I  can't 
seem  to  git  at.  He's  a  master  hoss-doctor,  Beanston 
says.  I  reckon  he'll  be  'ere  'long  'bout  four-five  o'clock." 

"  'N'  empty,  o'  course."  All  the  ranchmen  of  Mrs. 
Irish's  acquaintance  had  the  "  accommodating  entrails  " 
of  Gil  Bias,  and  she  based  her  estimate  of  strangers  on 
the  data  of  her  long  experience.  "  Emmy,  if  ye  don't 


118 


mind  havin'  supper  a  leetle  airlier  fer  this  wunst — 
Great  sufferin' !  where's  Emmy  ?" 

But  Emma  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  She's  got  the  queerest  way  o'  skippin'  out  lately," 
muttered  the  old  woman.  "  She  comes  V  goes  like  the 
shadder  on  the  wall !" 

Tom  Taylor  came  over  at  the  appointed  time.  He  was 
a  powerful  man,  and  but  for  his  long  neck  might  have 
passed  for  a  professional  pugilist.  There  was  something 
mysterious  in  his  make-up — a  reserve  of  wickedness,  per- 
haps, which  suggested  a  little  of  Lara  and  a  great  deal  of 
the  devil.  His  perfectly  horizontal  black  eyes  alternate- 
ly evaded  and  defied  ;  they  were  shifty,  suspicious ;  and 
when  he  closed  them  slowly  one  was  never  sure  what 
would  be  their  mood  on  reopening.  His  hair,  black  and 
glossy,  was  parted  low  on  one  side,  and  hung  in  a  stiff, 
waving  tuft  over  his  forehead.  His  eyebrows  were 
strongly  marked  near  the  nose,  but  degenerated  into 
scattering  patches  at  the  outer  extremities,  and  disap- 
peared in  a  hard,  flat  expanse  of  temple  where  no  vein 
was  visible.  His  whole  range  of  facial  expression  lay 
within  the  range  of  selfishness,  and  even  his  pleasures 
might  be  forecast  as  cruel.  His  entire  exterior  testified 
to  a  brooding  nature,  at  once  passionate  and  calculating. 
He  was  handsome  in  a  way,  but  it  was  a  way  which  put 
people  on  their  guard. 

"  Well,  Wooly,  ole  boy,  how  air  ye  ?"  was  his  greet- 
ing to  Julius.  "  How  d'  ye  stack  up  this  arternoon  ?" 
He  had  a  soft,  hoarse  voice,  expressing  just  now  a  sort 
of  deprecating  boisterousness.  In  speaking  he  drew 
back  his  chin,  and  looked  out  furtively  from  beneath 
his  scraggy  brows. 


119 


Julius  took  the  proffered  hand  gravely,  but  did  not  re- 
turn the  oral  greeting.  "  The  corral's  aroun'  this  side," 
he  said,  leading  the  way  towards  the  corner  of  the  house. 

Taylor's  eyes  had  a  disagreeable  way  of  turning  slight- 
ly inward  when  he  was  displeased,  and  they  did  this 
now ;  at  the  same  time  a  scowl  pulled  his  eyebrows  to- 
gether, but  left  his  forehead  singularly  smooth  and  serene. 

They  had  to  pass  Emma  Webster's  window,  and  Ju- 
lius noticed  that  the  curtain  was  down.  "  I  wonder  if 
she's  sick  ?"  he  thought.  "  I  'member  seein'  'er  leave  the 
kitchen  a  hour  ago." 

She  was  not  sick,  but  she  lay  on  the  bed  with  her  face 
buried  in  the  pillows  and  her  hands  clasped  clamp-like 
over  her  ears. 

Even  then  she  knew  when  they  had  passed  the  win- 
dow. She  had  neither  heard  nor  seen  them — she  knew 
it  by  an  inward  sense  which  she  did  not  try  to  name. 
When  they  were  gone,  she  turned  a  little  so  that  she 
could  look  out  into  the  yellow  twilight  of  the  room.  The 
afternoon  sun  shot  straight  through  the  thin  calico  cur- 
tain and  filled  the  place  with  an  aerial  amber  glow.  Her 
few  plain  garments — a  dark  worsted  dress,  a  sun-bonnet, 
and  shawl — lay  flat  as  shadows  against  the  wall.  The 
rickety  old  stand  looked  like  some  half-starved  quadru- 
ped tottering  feebly  on  its  four  legs.  A  bit  of  sewing 
hung  down  over  the  edge  of  the  stand,  and  a  gleam  of 
hard  gray  light  made  the  needle  visible  where  she  had 
stuck  it  in. 

A  crowing  cock  asserted  himself  in  the  direction  of 
the  barn.  He  did  not  repeat  the  cry,  and  she  forgot  it, 
closing  her  eyes  and  listening  with  a  vacant  dread  to  the 
melodious  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the  pines  and  the 


120 


fragmentary  music  of  the  water.  She  was  not  distinct- 
ly conscious  of  anything  —  not  even  of  herself;  her 
thoughts  passed  vaguely — not  as  thoughts,  but  as  phan- 
tasms; faint  instincts,  pale  memories  of  danger,  such  as 
might  come  to  some  animal  that  does  its  thinking  with 
its  spine.  "  Where  was  I  when  I  seen  Reuben  Goodell 
last?  He  was  p'intin'  me  out  to  the  p'liceman  down 
to  Donhaly  City.  No — no;  I  never  seen  'im  in  Colly- 
raydo.  Oh,  I  'member  now.  The  river  looked  so  slick 
'n'  sly — so  smooth  V  deep.  I  run  almos'  into  it  afore 
I  knowed  —  down  there  to  Moab.  It  whirled  round 
the  bar  in  muddy  eddies  —  its  noise  seemed  to  come 
from  low  down  in  its  throat.  'N'  the  prairie  was  covered 
with  wheat-fields,  'n'  they  was  blue  mist  all  'long  the 
Missoury  Valley,  almost  hidin'  the  Nebrasky  shore." 
She  arose  restlessly,  drew  the  curtain,  and  looked  out. 
Clouds  were  trailing  their  slow  length  along  the  pines,  and 
frothing  over  the  naked  cottonwoods  into  the  gulches. 
The  mountains  looked  remote  and  sad ;  the  wind  intoned 
monotonously  ;  the  water  moved  with  a  sort  of  talkative 
apathy,  and  seemed  trying  to  keep  itself  forcibly  awake. 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  by  the  spring  had  a  dull,  car- 
bonaceous glister;  their  high -lights  looked  indistinct, 
with  a  plush-like  shimmer.  The  silence  was  so  complete 
that  she  could  hear  the  level  sunbeams  on  the  roof,  her 
own  blood  flowing,  her  own  thoughts  working.  Should 
she  cry  out  and  shatter  the  stillness — crash  into  it  with 
wild  shrieking,  as  glass  is  broken  by  hurled  stones  ?  She 
passed  her  hand  along  the  window-sill ;  it  made  a  rasp- 
ing noise,  so  loud  that  she  drew  back,  startled ;  then  the 
silence  heaved  in  towards  her  as  before.  She  did  not 
resist  it  now,  but  let  it  pour  over  and  submerge  her. 


121 


Silence  everywhere  ;  sight,  hearing,  touch,  all  avenues  of 
communication  with  the  outside  world  closed,  barred, 
sealed ;  herself  a  sentient  atom,  quivering,  tense,  irrita- 
ble, expecting  something,  she  knew  not  what — a  vision, 
perhaps  a  voice,  a  blow.  It  was  a  moment  when  clair- 
audience  was  possible.  She  listened  as  if  expecting  a 
message  from  the  air. 

"  All  that  are  able  to  go  forth  to  war  in  Israel." 

The  words  dropped  into  her  mind  suddenly,  without 
warning,  from  nowhere.  She  came  to  herself  with  a 
start,  making  the  effort  to  remember  why  they  seemed 
so  familiar.  They  were  from  the  Bible;  yes,  and  they 
had  come  to  her  once  before.  Were  they  a  warning — 
an  admonition  ?  "  All  that  are  able  to  go  forth  to  war  in 
Israel."  Did  they  mean  that  she  was  to  go  forth  from 
this  place  and  fight  out  the  battle  of  life  elsewhere  ? 
She  had  not  so  construed  them  the  other  time.  She  be- 
lieved in  miracles,  in  the  direct  interposition  of  God. 
She  listened  for  guiding  voices,  and  heard  them  fre- 
quently in  the  strained  silence  which  followed  earnest 
prayer.  She  could  not  account  for  them,  except  to 
ascribe  them  to  God.  They  transcended  reason  as  the 
mystic  flight  of  melody  transcends  law. 

"  If  it's  reely  Reuben  Goodell,  I'll  know  what  to  do," 
she  thought.  "  I'll  make  shore  —  I'll  go  'n'  see."  She 
flung  on  her  sun-bonnet  and  hastened  out. 

It  was  growing  chilly ;  the  setting  sun  drew  out  the 
internal  shadows  of  the  hills.  The  mountains  rose  indis- 
tinctly, like  the  unsubstantial  shapes  of  some  magic 
world.  The  mists  were  dissolving  into  faint  pink  vapor 
among  the  pines,  but  lay  heavy  and  white  above  the 
water  in  the  gulches.  She  rounded  the  corner  of  the 


122 


house,  crossed  the  rivulet  from  the  spring,  ascended  the 
slope  to  the  rocks,  and  climbed  to  their  summit.  From 
there  she  could  overlook  the  corral,  herself  unseen. 

Even  then  she  did  not  look.  The  human,  cowardly 
instinct  to  slink  into  the  rear  of  the  .truth  overcame  her, 
and  she  crouched  down  upon  the  rocks,  closing  her  eyes 
hard.  When  at  last  she  looked  out,  it  was  not  towards  the 
corral.  She  noticed  with  a  dull  apathy  how  the  pines 
softened  the  hard  gray  outlines  of  the  foot-hills,  how  a 
fringe  of  cloud  hung  unsteadily  above  some  distant 
woods,  how  the  gulches  were  becoming  more  and  more 
thickly  mantled  in  mist.  She  turned  her  eyes  towards 
the  zenith,  and  held  them  there  till  her  brain  began  to 
swim ;  when  she  looked  again  at  things  upon  a  level 
with  her  eyes,  objects  advanced  and  retreated,  swayed 
and  plunged,  as  if  lifted  on  great  waves.  "  I  shall  die 
if  I  don't  make  shore  it's  him,"  she  thought,  coldly. 
And  she  tried  to  summon  up  will-power  sufficient  to 
turn  her  eyes  towards  the  corral.  She  fastened  her  gaze 
upon  a  tree  near  the  barn,  and  held  it  there  with  the  as- 
siduity of  fixed  purpose.  From  there  she  wrenched  her 
eyes  towards  the  corral,  and  stared  at  the  horses  inside. 

The  red  cay  use  had  been  driven  into  a  corner  and  was 
standing  quite  still,  only  turning  its  head  with  a  sniffing 
inquiry  towards  a  man  who  was  bending  over  and  ex- 
amining its  left  fore-foot.  The  man's  back  was  tow- 
ards Emma  Webster,  but  the  long,  muscular  neck  was 
visible,  as  well  as  the  outline  of  a  square,  cruel  jaw, 
such  as  she  knew  could  belong  only  to  one  man  in  all 
the  world.  She  had  before  seen  precisely  that  move- 
ment of  the  prominent  wrist  bones,  while  the  heavy 
hands  manipulated  a  horse's  foot  with  the  broken  blade 


123 


of  a  pocket-knife.  No  need  to  see  the  face.  She  sank 
down  upon  the  rocks  with  a  low  moan,  and  lay  there, 
quivering. 

The  night  settled  heavily ;  the  wind  blew  down  from 
the  summits  with  a  sharp,  succinct  cry.  The  clouds 
shook  out  their  air -spun  garments,  hurried  down  the 
ridges  with  fantastic  movements,  and  hid  away  in  the 
gulches  and  canons.  The  air  contracted  as  it  grew  dark ; 
it  compressed  the  rocks  and  trees  into  shapeless  mass- 
es— meaningless  outlines  without  individuality.  Strange 
sounds  went  rippling  across  each  other  through  the  up- 
per air — Orphic  murmurs,  maniacal  harmonies.  Lumi- 
nous clusters  of  stars  shook  out  through  the  darkness, 
and  the  peaks  looked  ghostly  and  dim.  Tom  Taylor 
had  declined  the  invitation  to  remain  to  dinner,  and  had 
gone  back  to  Beanston's ;  Julius  had  foddered  the  home 
cattle,  and  had  just  risen  from  his  milking  to  carry  the 
last  foaming  pail  to  the  house.  At  the  barn  door  he 
paused  a  moment  to  wonder  if  he  had  forgotten  any- 
thing. 

"Julius!" 

He  started  and  listened.  There  was  no  sound  but  the 
warning  voice  of  the  wind,  and  the  echoes  of  the  water 
beating  back  from  the  walls  of  the  canon  with  flagging 
wings.  He  could  see  nothing  but  the  shapeless  foot-hills 
and  the  mountains  looming  dimly  through  the  gathering 
shades. 

"  Julius  !  Julius  !" 

The  cry  was  shrill  with  terror.  "That's  mother's 
voice,"  he  said,  starting  for  the  house  on  a  run. 

The  old  woman  had  dragged  herself  to  the  shed  door, 
and  was  crouching  there  on  her  knees. 


134 

"  Where's  Emmy  ?"  she  called  out  before  he  reached 
her. 

" Emmy  ?"  he  repeated,  blankly.     "Ain't  she  here  ?" 

"  She  went  out  torrards  the  spring  two  hours  ago ;  I 
seen  'er  pass  the  corner." 

"  Ain't  she  in  'er  room  ?" 

"  No ;  I've  called  fer  'er  till  I'm  hoarse.  Oh,  Julius, 
d'  ye  reckon  she's  gone  back  to  Donhaly  City  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Look  fer  'er — look  fer  'er !"  cried  the  old  woman, 
frantically. 

He  lifted  her  back  in  her  chair,  then  ran  out.  A  sense 
of  tragedy  was  in  the  very  air.  "  Emmy  !"  he  called — 
"  Emmy  !  Emmy  !"  He  could  only  think  that  one  word, 
and  his  voice  reproduced  it  mechanically.  Material 
things  exhibit  different  qualities  under  different  tests, 
and  in  his  dread  the  sky  was  a  threat,  the  water  in  the 
canon  whispered  of  death.  "  Emmy  !  Emmy  !"  The 
echoes  repeated  the  word  in  tones  of  sullen  fear. 

Where  should  he  look  first?  For  a  little  space  his 
mind  refused  to  act  —  it  was  like  a  ship  in  a  storm. 
Then  he  hurried  to  the  spring ;  she  was  not  there.  The 
bubbling  waters  shook  as  with  secret  laughter,  and  the 
stars  were  reflected  from  the  restless  surface  like  dizzy 
eyes.  He  ran  to  the  barn  and  looked  in ;  nothing  was 
to  be  seen  but  shadows,  nothing  to  be  heard  but  the 
stamp  of  an  occasional  hoof  and  the  deep  sighing  breath 
of  cattle  at  rest.  At  the  door  of  the  dugout  in  the  side 
of  the  hill  the  blackness  kept  him  out  like  a  wedge 
thrust  forward.  He  struck  a  match,  half  expecting  to 
find  her  lying  on  the  floor  among  the  barrels,  dead.  But 
there  was  nothing.  The  match  flickered  and  went  out ; 


125 


the  darkness  rushed  together  where  the  light  had  been. 
He  had  no  time  to  stop  and  think — no  time  even  for  de- 
spair. He  ran  round  the  corral,  still  calling,  then  to  the 
edge  of  the  canon  and  looked  down.  The  depths  seemed 
full  of  ink  and  running  over  into  the  small  lateral  gulches  ; 
no  sound  rose  but  the  wailing  of  the  pines  and  the  cease- 
less iteration  of  the  water.  The  bare,  bleak  cottonwoods 
looked  hard  and  stiff  as  if  cast  in  iron,  and  the  mountains 
rose  like  crumpled  heaps  of  moonlight. 

"  I  could  see  farther  from  the  top  o'  the  rocks  by  the 
spring,"  he  thought;  and  he  leaped  up,  his  breast  pant- 
ing, his  body  one  great  throb  of  fear.  On  the  summit 
the  flutter  of  her  dress  caught  his  eye.  He  rushed  for- 
ward with  a  sinking  heart.  She  was  lying  prone  upon 
her  face,  the  lines  of  her  figure  singularly  stiff  and  stark. 
For  a  moment  a  great  blackness  veiled  his  eyes — a  black- 
ness through  which  whirled  this  vision  involved  in  black- 
er night.  "  She  is  dead  !"  was  his  thought.  He  stooped 
forward  and  gathered  her  in  his  arms.  She  lay  quite 
passive,  her  head  and  one  arm  falling  back.  In  this  way 
he  carried  her  to  the  house. 

The  old  woman  shrieked  out  at  sight  of  him,  and  no 
wonder.  His  face  was  distorted  with  anguish  and  fear. 

"  She's  dead !"  he  said,  not  understanding  his  own 
words ;  and  he  stood  gazing  down  at  the  pale  face  with 
stricken  helplessness. 

"  Dead  !"  The  old  woman  leaned  forward  in  her  chair, 
motionless.  She  was  the  first  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

"  Lay  'er  down  afore  the  fire  V  fetch  the  brandy,"  she 
commanded.  Julius  obeyed,  his  features  lighting  with 
the  effort  of  trying  to  do  something.  He  poured  spoon- 
ful after  spoonful  of  the  liquid  fire  down  the  girl's  throat, 


126 


while  his  mother  chafed  her  wrists  and  temples.  At  last 
there  was  a  spasmodic  contraction  of  the  muscles  of  her 
throat,  then  she  stirred  faintly. 

"  There  !"  said  the  old  woman,  settling  back. 

Emma  Webster  opened  her  eyes  with  a  vacant  stare. 

"  Thank  God !"  cried  Julius,  drawing  her  head  upon 
his  knees  and  kissing  her.  His  mother  was  sobbing  hys- 
terically behind  her  hands. 

The  girl  stirred  feebly  before  she  spoke.  Then,  with 
an  effort,  "  Why,  what  is  it,  Julius  ?  Be  I— sick  ?" 

"  We  thought  ye  was  dead,"  he  answered,  with  con- 
vulsed features. 

She  took  in  his  words  slowly  and  then  smiled. 

"I'm  better  now.     So — he  didn't  tell  ye,  Julius?" 

"  Tell  me  ?— who  ?" 

"  Ye  wouldn't  a-kissed  me  if  he'd  told  ye.  Or  did  I 
dream  it  ?  Ye  kissed  me,  didn't  ye,  jes'  's  I  woke  up  ?" 

"Who  d'  ye  mean  by  he?" 

"  Reuben  Goodell — out  in  the  corral." 

"  She's  out  o'  'er  head,"  declared  Mrs.  Irish. 

"  Reuben  Goodell  ?"  questioned  Julius.  "  'Twas  Tom 
Taylor  'twas  with  me  in  the  corral." 

"  Yes  ;  Tom  Taylor." 

She  sank  back,  closing  her  eyes  against  the  firelight. 

"  Ye  ain't  hadyer  supper !"  she  cried,with  a  sudden  start. 

"  Supper !"  snorted  the  old  woman. 

"  I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Julius,  reassuringly. 

"  I  do  b'lieve  she'd  be  thinkin'  o'  our  supper  if  she 
was  on  the  way  to  glory  this  minute,"  declared  Mrs. 
Irish,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  kin  you  git  supper  ?"  said  Emma,  opening  her 
eyes  and  smiling. 


127 


"  Jes'  wait  'n'  see  !" 

"  'N'  Torn  Taylor — " 

"  He  went  back  to  Beanston's  long  ago." 

She  lay  quiet  for  a  little,  then  began  to  stir  restlessly. 

"  Julius  !"  she  whispered. 

For  answer  he  took  her  hand. 

"  Did — did  ye  ever  commit  a  sin — a  crime  ?" 

He  stared  at  her,  doubting  her  sanity. 

"  No  end  o'  sins,"  he  answered. 

"  But  never  a  crime?" 

"Not 't  I  know  of." 

"  Ye'd  know  it  if  ye  had.  It  'ud  foller  ye — it  wouldn't 
let  ye  rest." 

Again  she  was  silent. 

"  Did  ye  ever  read  that  story  'bout  the  blood-hounds 
't  they  useter  track  runaway  slaves  with,  Julius  ?" 

"  Yes  ;    Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  ye  mean  ?" 

"Well,  a  body's  crimes  is  like  them  dretful  beasts. 
They're  allus  on  yer  track,  'n'  sooner  or  later  they'll 
hunt  ye  down."  She  rallied  herself  with  an  effort.  "I 
reckon  I  kin  walk  now.  See,  if  ye'll  let  me  lean  on  ye, 
I  can  git  to  my  room."  The  task  was  accomplished 
with  difficulty,  for  she  would  not  let  him  carry  her ;  but 
as  she  said  good-night  she  drew  his  face  down  to- hers. 

"  If  Tom  Taylor — tells  ye,  ye'll  be  just  to  me,  Julius  ? 
'  Judge  righteously  between  every  man  'n'  his  brother,' 
the  Bible  says.  I  love  ye,  dear,  so  much — so  much. 
'N'  so — good-night !" 


CHAPTER    X 

THE  next  morning  Emma  Webster  was  too  ill  to  rise. 
"  I'll  be  stronger  if  I  kin  rest  fer  a  little,"  she  said, 
wistfully. 

"  Rest,  dear — only  rest,"  said  Julius. 

"  I  couldn't  walk  fur  now,  could  I  ?  I'd  fall  down 
by  the  way.  Kin  ye  see  the  green  hills — the  green 
hills,  Julius  ?  They're  a  long  way  off,  but  I'll  be  hopeful 
'n'  press  on  through  the  mud  V  mire."  He  thought 
her  mind  was  wandering,  and  stood  stroking  her  hand 
with  unavailing  pity.  "  I'll  find  stren'th  to  do  the 
will  o'  the  Lord,"  she  added,  with  a  long  sigh.  "  Ye 
want  me  to  do  the  will  o'  the  Lord,  Julius?" 

"  Yes — when  ye  makes  sure  it's  His  will." 

"  It  ain't  a  question  o'  happiness,  is  it  ?  But  it  may 
lead  to  happiness  in  the  next  world.  God  save  us  !  Joy 
sometimes  bows  us  's  low  's  sorrer  —  we're  like  the 
flowers  in  summer  rain.  Ye  won't  let  him  in  to  see  me  ?" 
She  started  up  with  a  cry  of  fear. 

"  No,  no ;  I  won't  let  'im  in.    It's  Tom  Taylor  ye  mean  ?" 

"  Does  he  know  I'm  here?" 

"  I  doubt  if  he's  ever  heard  o'  ye." 

"  Oh,  he's  heerd  o'  me — he's  a  bad  man,  Julius.  He 
ain't  what  he  pertends  to  be.  I  can't  face  him ;  he'd 
p'int  me  out  to  the  p'lice.  'All  that  are  able  to  go 
forth  to  war  in  Israel.'  Why  should  I  fear  the  sons  of 
Anakim  ?  I'll  go— I'll  go  !" 


"She  don't  sense  what  she's  savin',''  said  Mrs.  Irish, 
whose  chair  had  been  brought  to  Emma's  bedside. 

"  Poor  little  gal,"  murmured  Julius  as  he  left  the  room. 

She  lay  silent  for  some  time. 

"D'  ye  reckon  we  make  our  own  lives,"  she  finally 
asked,  "  or  is  God  responsible  ?"  She  was  lying  with 
wide-open,  languid  eyes. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  'twas  a  little  o'  both,"  was  the 
old  woman's  answer. 

"  Yes ;  God's  grace  makes  it  a  little  o'  both,  that's 
true.  But  He  gives  us  our  chances — we  take  'em  or 
throw  'em  away.  Childhood's  only  the  ploughin'  time ; 
the  plantin'  'n'  harvest  comes  later." 

The  little  sheet-iron  stove,  rusty  from  long  disuse, 
had  been  set  up  in  the  room,  and  a  long,  red  bar  of  light 
extended  out  from  the  damper  in  front. 

"  It's  so  pleasant,"  said  Emma,  restfully.  "  'N'  Julius 
is  so  good  to  me  !"  She  turned  on  her  pillow  so  that 
she  could  look  into  the  old  woman's  eyes. 

"  He's  the  best  man  on  this  airth,  even  if  he  ain't  a 
perfessor,"  declared  his  mother. 

"  He's  brave  even  in  that,"  the  girl  said.  "  They's 
many  a  one  't  can't  b'lieve  'n'  don't  dare  to  disb'lieve." 
She  tossed  her  hands  about  nervously.  "  D'  ye  know 
what  'tis  to  be  happy  ?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

"  No,"  was  the  grim  answer. 

"  Not  even  in  yer  thoughts  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Not 's  much  's  to  git  a  glimpse  o'  yer  happiness  slip- 
pin'  away  from  ye  'fore  ye  had  time  to  clutch  it  ?" 

"  Happiness  never  come  clost  'nough  to  me  even  fer 
that." 


130 


Emma  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"  Ye're  more  mis'able  'n  what  I  be,  then,"  she  declared. 
"  That  one  glimpse — it's  heaven !  But  it's  slippin'  away  ; 
it's  slippin'  away !" 

"  Better  grab  it  'n'  hang  on — hang  on  like  it  was  yer 
life !" 

"Oh,  I  kin  live  on  'thout  it  —  the  Lord  '11  gimme 
stren'th.  I  ain't  made  no  fuss  'bout  my  love  for  Julius, 
have  I?  I  ain't  troubled  nobody — I  ain't  groaned  'n' 
took  on  ?  But  deep  love  runs  quiet — oh,  I  love  'im  with 
every  breath  I  draw  !  Sometimes — sometimes  my  heart 
'11  show  it  to  me  hereafter,  jes'  like  it  was ;  not  often — 
that  'ud  be  too  bitter." 

"  I  can't  hear,"  said  the  old  woman,  bending  forward. 
Emma's  voice  had  sunk  very  low. 

"  God  be  good  to  us  all !"  cried  the  girl,  closing  her 
eyes. 

At  noon  she  was  better,  and  asked  Julius  to  lift  the 
curtain,  that  she  might  look  out. 

"Why,  it's  the  fall  o'  the  year,"  she  said,  with  sur- 
prise. "Yes,  I  'member  now — late  in  September.  Let 
me  think !" 

She  lay  with  her  face  towards  the  window,  gazing  out 
at  the  white  peaks,  which  lay  like  anchored  thunderheads. 
Gradually  her  eyes  lowered. 

"The  cotton  woods  is  all  bare,  'n'  the  snow  is  creepin' 
down,"  she  said.  "I  'member  when  the  leaves  was 
thick  'n'  green,  'n'  they  was  sunflowers  all  'long  the 
slope — d'  ye  mind  how  fine  'twas  when  I  fust  came  ? 
But  now — see,  they  ain't  nothin'  but  gray  weeds  'n'  bare 
branches.  Tell  me,  Julius,  is  the  world  only  made  for 
glimpses  o'  happiness — a  place  where  things  grows  up 


131 


in  beauty,  then  rush  on  to  meet  death  ?  Lovely  things 
die,  but  ugly  things  live  on ;  is  it  doubtin'  God  to  say 
so,  when  a  body  's  in  despair  ?  Lift  me  up  a  little — so ; 
now  I  kin  see  the  pines,  'n'  watch  the  shadders  stream- 
in'  down  the  slopes.  Let  me  think  o'  it  like  'twas  in 
June." 

"  She's  better,"  the  old  woman  whispered,  noticing 
how  quietly  she  rested. 

Emma  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled. 

"  Yes,  ever  so  much  better,"  she  answered.  "  Fer 
now  my  mind's  made  up."  And  she  closed  her  eyes 
and  lay  motionless. 

"  Julius,"  she  said  again,  "  I've  been  thinkin  o'  the 
beauty  o'  the  mountains  'n'  the  glory  o'  the  summer 
we've  lived  together ;  but  that  ain't  the  best  o'  my  stay 
'ere.  Shall  I  tell  ye  what  was  the  best  2" 

"  Yes,  do." 

She  reached  out  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  seeming  to 
delight  in  his  strong,  loving  clasp. 

"  'N'  yer  mother  shall  hear  it  now.  Why  should  I 
keep  it  to  myself?  It's  all  settled — 'n'  over.  It's  the 
home  I  found  here,  'n'  the  love  't  found  me — that  was 
the  best !  My  heart  cries  out  fer  ye,  Julius,  'n',  wrong 
or  not,  I  hain't  the  stren'th  to  still  it.  Love  me,  Julius — 
only  love  me,  no  matter  what  comes ;  love  me  like  I'll 
allus  love  you — " 

"  Allus  ?"  he  questioned,  tenderly. 

"  Allus — 's  sure  's  death.  Don't  leave  me,  dear — not 
even  when  I  sleep.  It's  such  a  little  while  till — till  I  git 
well  ag'in." 

The  old  woman  spoke  up  sharply : 

"  Well,  if  ye  love  each  other,  why  in  the  name  o'  sense 


132 


don't  ye  go  down  to  the  city  V  git  tied  up  afore  the 
snow  sets  in  ?  They's  time  'nough." 

Emma  did  not  answer.  Her  face  was  convulsed  with 
suffering,  but  the  old  woman  did  not  dare  to  comfort  her. 

"  She  won't  die !"  whispered  Julius,  fiercely,  to  his 
mother.  "  God  wouldn't  let  such  a  thing  happen  !" 

"  No !"  she  answered,  as  fiercely.  And  each  stared  at 
the  other  as  if  defying  the  Infinite  in  person. 

Julius  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Every- 
where the  stoic  indifference  of  mountain,  brook,  and 
wind ;  the  same  luminous  rebound  of  sunshine  from  yel- 
low rocks,  the  same  melody  in  the  overflow  of  the  spring. 

The  afternoon  wore  away.  Again  the  manifold  shad- 
ows of  the  hills  crept  out  upon  the  world ;  the  mountains 
loomed  darkly  against  the  huge  distant  bonfire  of  the 
sun.  What  was  it  that  troubled  the  time?  A  thought? 
a  fear  ?  Is  Death  possible  to  Love  ?  Is  the  caress  of 
passionate  desire  but  the  touch  of  cold  lips  which  press 
ours  in  passing,  and  then  are  dust  ? 

Julius  turned  away  from  the  sunset,  his  mind  chilled 
and  confused  as  if  a  north  wind  had  blown  through  it. 
He  drew  down  the  curtain,  lighted  a  candle,  and  went 
out  to  his  milking. 

"  Emmy,"  said  the  old  woman,  softly,  when  they  were 
alone. 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Was  ye  'sleep  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Ye  laid  so  still—" 

"  I  was  thinkin'." 

"Ye've  laid  jes'  so  all  the  arternoon — 's  white  's  a 
painted  picter.  Ye're  sure  ye  ain't  got  no  pain  ?" 


133 


"  No  pain — nothin'  but  thoughts." 

"  'N'  they  ain't  nothin'  I  could  do  ?" 

"  No,  nothin'." 

"  Not  even  if  I  knowed  what  ye're  thinkin'  'bout  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Do  I  worry  ye  by  talkin'  ?" 

"  Worry  me !"  The  negative  was  emphasized  by  a 
look. 

"  Ye're  willin'  I  should  go  on — even  if  I  show  I  kerry 
my  gall  with  me  ?" 

Emma  smiled. 

"  Ye  couldn't  be  onkind  to  me." 

"I  couldn't  mean  to.  Ye  may  b'lieve  it  —  it's  the 
God's  truth.  'N'  it's  my  love  for  ye  't  forces  me  to 
speak  up.  What's  the  use  o'  goin'  on  like  this?  Tell 
me  yer  troubles,  'n'  let  me  help  ye.  If  jawin'  could  do 
anything,  I  might  be  a  power  o'  good.  I  know  ye  ain't 
committed  a  crime — ye  couldn't  harm  a  fly..  What's  the 
matter,  then  ?  What  'a'  ye  done  ?" 

Emma's  head  gradually  drooped  lower  on  the  pillow. 

"  Tell  me !  Was  it  a  crime  't  drove  ye  'way  from 
home  ?" 

"  Yes."     Her  voice  was  very  low. 

The  old  woman  caught  her  breath. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  it !"  The  words  might  have  been 
uttered  by  a  steel  trap. 

"  A  crime  o'  yer  own  doin'  ?"  she  added,  a  moment 
after. 

Emma  hesitated.     Her  face  contracted  strongly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  a  word  o'  it !"  This  time  the  dis- 
claimer went  off  like  a  gun. 


134 


"  It's  true  all  the  same.  I  planned  it — I  thought  it 
out  on  dark  nights.  'N'  then — I  done  it." 

Again  they  were  silent.  The  cottonwoods  sent  a 
shrill,  nerve-shaking  rustle  through  the  air  as  the  wind 
stirred  them.  The  water  in  the  gulch  lashed  the  rocks 
with  sudden  fury.  It  was  as  if  the  Eumenides  were  at 
work  down  there. 

"  But  a  crime,  Emmy  !  Don't  magnify  a  fault  into  a 
crime !  Say  it's  a  fault,  dear ;  ye're  shore  ye're  right  in 
callin'  it  a  crime  ?  Think — a  crime  means — well,  say 
murder — " 

«  Sh— sh— sh !" 

Emma  Webster  flung  herself  forward,  her  face  white 
with  terror. 

"  If  Julius  'd  a-heerd  that — " 

"  But  a  crime  !  No,  it  can't  be.  Ain't  I  had  my 
eyes  on  ye  every  minute  sence  las'  June  ?  Couldn't  I  a- 
seen — " 

Emma  Webster  laughed.  It  was  like  the  rattle  in 
the  throat  of  a  dying  woman. 

"  They's  other  crimes  'n  that — that  'un — 't  ye  spoke 
about.  They's  heaps  o'  crimes  !  The  newspapers  is  full 
o'  'em — " 

"  Then  ye  won't  tell  me  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Nor  Julius,  nuther  ?" 

"  Him  least  o'  all !" 

"  He  loves  ye,  Emmy.     He  orter  know." 

"'N'  I  want  'im  to  love  me — that's  why  I  can't  tell. 
He'd  hate  me  ferever.  He'd  run  from  me  like  I  had  the 
plague  !" 

It  was  late  when  Abiathar  and  his  father  came  home. 


135 


The  old  man  was  moaning  and  singing  by  turns.  He 
was  got  into  bed  without  delay,  and,  after  disposing  of 
the  horses  for  the  night,  Abiathar  came  into  the  room 
where  Emma  was  lying. 

"  Ye  got  the  flannel  fer  our  new  petticoats?"  was  Mrs. 
Irish's  first  question. 

Abiathar  nodded. 

"  Emmy  sick  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Looks  like  it,  don't  it  ?  'N'  the  agate  buttons — I  bet 
a  hen  ye  fergot  'em  !" 

"  They're  in  the  bundle  'long  o'  the  flannel.  Much 
sick  ?" 

"  Better  now.     'N'  my  winter  stogies — " 

"  I  got  everything."  He  paused  a  moment,  while  a 
slow  grin  overspread  his  features,  and  his  eye  lighted  up 
with  a  communicative  gleam.  "  I  got  suthin'  ye  didn't 
send  me  fer,  too  —  suthin'  ye  didn't  expeck.  'N'  ye'll 
howl,  I  know — but  I  don't  give  a  darn  !" 

"  Well,  what  ye  been  foolin'  yer  money  'way  on  now  ? 
Green  V  yaller  neckties  ?  Nuts  'n'  taffy  ?" 

Abiathar  drew  himself  up,  and  blurted  forth  with  none 
of  the  saving  restrictions  of  art : 

"  Mother,  I've  got  a  wife !" 

The  old  woman's  jaw  fell.  "She's  goin'  to  stan'  up 
to  it  quiet,"  Abiathar  thought.  But  a  moment  after  she 
flung  up  both  hands  and  screeched. 

"  Quit  yer  yellin',"  she  commanded,  evidently  believ- 
ing that  the  noise  came  from  her  son.  "  Don't  ye  see  't 
Emmy's  sick  in  bed  'n'  sufferin'  1  What  d'  ye  mean  by 
tootin'  up  like  that?  A  wife  !— oh,  Lord !— Cynthy 
Bcanston  !" 

"  Who  else  ?     Shall  I  tell  ye  'bout  it  ?" 


"  No,  I  don't  want  to  hear  a  word — I  won't  hear  a 
word  !  Did  she  wear  that  blue  check  gingham  with  the 
pink  headin'  to  the  ruffle  ?  It  'ud  be  jes'  like  'er  to  go 
to  'er  own  marryin'  in  that  rig.  'N'  a  sun-bunnit,  I  bet 
— couldn't  she  skeer  out  a  hat  from  nowheres  ?  Well, 
what's  become  o'  her  ?  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  was 
out  a-hangin'  round  the  barns  till  ye  told  the  news — if 
she  is,  ye  kin  tell  'er  to  stay  there.  /  won't  see  'er !" 

"  She  got  off  to  Rothschild's  bridge  V  walked  hum. 
I'd  a-went  with  'er,  only  dad  couldn't  drive."  He  twist- 
ed one  inflexible  leg  around  the  bed-post  and  went  on. 
"  Ye  see,  dad  was  havin'  his  fun  down  to  Conklin's — " 

"  I'd  have  'im  sent  to  the  jag-cure  if  he  was  wuth 
savin',"  snapped  the  old  woman. 

"  Well,  while  he  was  gittin'  on  his  overload  o'  moun- 
tain dew,  Cynthy  V  me  we  walked  aroun'  V  viewed  the 
sights.  They  was  a  boy  on  the  corner  sellin'  double- 
j'inted,  eddicated  peanuts,  V  I  took  stock  in  a  couple  o' 
little  sacks,  V  Cynthy  V  me  sot  down  on  the  edge  o'  the 
sidewalk  'n'  commenced  to  eat. 

"  Then  I  put  a  pertater-bug  in  Cynthy's  ear. 

"  Says  I,  '  I  know  where  they's  a  justice  o'  the  peace  !' 

"  'What's  that?'  says  she.  I  reckon  she  'lowed  'twas 
suthin'  more  to  eat. 

" '  He's  the  feller  't  marries  folks,'  says  I. 

"  '  Oh,'  says  she,  '  I  'lowed  'twas  the  preacher  done 
that.' 

"  Then  I  tole  'er  how  'twas."  Abiathar  had  become 
excited  with  his  narrative,  and  stood  erect,  a  quivering 
mass  of  garrulous  futility.  "  '  Come  on,'  says  I,  '  let's 
go  down  to  Justice  Craven's  'n'  git  spliced.  We'll  never 
have  a  better  chance.' 


137 


"  '  Let's  finish  the  peanuts  fust,'  says  she. 

"  '  No,  now,'  says  I. 

"  '  Oh,  Ian' !'  says  she.     Ye  know  how  a  gal  'ud  act. 

"  '  Oh,  ye  needn't  cal'late  on  Tom  Taylor,'  says  I.  '  He 
may  fool  'roun',  but  he  never  '11  ast  ye.' 

"  '  I've  thort  o'  that,'  says  she,  kinder  doubtful.  '  But 
wot  if  I  found  out  arterwards  he  meant  to  have  me  ?' 

"  'Anyways,'  says  I,  '  I  orter  have  ye.     I  ast  fust.' 

"  '  That's  so,'  says  she.  '  Fust  come,  fust  served.'  'N' 
with  that  we  sailed  in  on  the  justice,  'n'  now  they  ain't 
but  one  o'  us — I'm  a  married  man !" 

"  Fools,  fools !"  cried  the  old  woman. 

"  Oh,  we're  hunkidori  in  a  box !"  declared  the  bride- 
groom. "  'Sides,  ye  tole  me  I  might,  afore  winter,  'n' 
this  was  the  las'  chance.  'N'  Cynthy  'n'  me,  we've  laid  our 
heads  together  'n'  got  things  fixed  up  fer  the  two  ranch- 
es to  the  queen's  taste.  I'm  to  go  to  Beanston's,  'n'  Tom 
Taylor's  to  come  over  'ere — jes'  change  about,  see  ?  Ain't 
that  gay  ?" 

"  Orfle  gay  !"  assented  his  mother,  with  irony.  "  Oh, 
orfle  gay !" 

"  'N'  that  '11  keep  'im  away  from  Cynthy,  too,  ye  see 
— oh,  I've  got  my  wits  in  my  head,  if  I  allus  have  been 
called  a  fool !  I  won't  have  no  long-haired  cubs  a-dan- 
glin'  aroun'  arter  my  wife.  I'd — I'd — " 

"Ye  do  talk  like  a  real  married  man,"  scoffed  his 
mother.  "  Oh,  'Biathar,  they  ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  hide 
it — ye  be  all  kinds  o'  a  fool !  Well,  g'long  afore  I  give 
ye  a  top-cut  in  the  neck  with  the  poker.  What  a  world ! 
what  a  world !" 

The  room  was  silent  for  a  little  while  after  Abiathar's 
exit. 


138 


"  He'd  make  the  angels  swear !"  was  the  old  woman's 
final  comment. 

"  So  Tom  Taylor's  comin'  over  to  take  'JBiathar's  place?" 
Emma  asked. 

"  We've  got  to  have  some  'un.  Three  men  's  little 
'nough  to  chase  strayed  cattle  in  winter.  'N'  then 
they's  the  quicksands  down  torrards  the  river.  We  have 
to  watch  them  quicksands  like  they  was  the  light  o'  our 
eyes.  We've  lost  'nough  cattle  there  a'ready  to  stock 
two-three  Eastern  farms.  'N'  no  one  man  kin  stan'  it 
to  be  out  long  to  a  time — they  have  to  take  turns ;  ye 
don't  know  what  a  freeze-out  we  do  have  in  winter.  'N' 
Zury  ain't  the  man  he  useter  be,  nohow." 

"  Then  he'll  come — V  that's  right."  Emma  lay  quiet 
for  a  little  space.  "  Han'  me  my  Bible  from  the  stan' 
draw',  will  ye?  Thankee.  '  N'  push  the  candle  this 
way." 

She  opened  the  book  at  random  and  read : 

"  The  Lord  our  God  spoke  unto  us  in  Horeb,  saying, 
Ye  have  dwelt  long  enough  in  this  mount."  She  closed 
the  book  silently  and  lay  back.  The  old  woman  thought 
it  was  the  candlelight  that  made  her  look  so  pale. 


CHAPTER   XI 

AT  sunrise  next  morning  Abiathar  departed  for  Barb 
Wire  Ranch  with  all  his  belongings.  Emma  was  up  soon 
after,  getting  breakfast.  She  was  quite  well,  she  said, 
in  answer  to  Mrs.  Irish's  inquiries.  But  the  old  woman 
noticed  with  anxiety  that  her  cheeks  were  flushed  and 
her  eyes  shot  forth  a  feverish  sparkle. 

Julius,  unskilled  in  the  idiosyncrasies  of  women,  saw 
her  moving  about  the  house  with  rapture.  To  his  eyes 
the  flush  and  sparkle  indicated  renewed  vitality,  re- 
covered strength. 

"  Ye're  all  right  now,  dear  ?"  he  said,  holding  her  by 
the  shoulders  and  looking  down  at  her. 

She  regarded  him  steadfastly. 

"  Yes,  all  right,"  was  her  answer. 

He  was  to  spend  the  day  on  the  range,  and  after 
breakfast  he  kissed  her  and  started  out.  His  happiness 
lighted  up  the  autumn  world  with  warm  reflections.  Was 
it  autumn  ?  He  did  not  know  it.  Emma  loved  him,  and 
she  was  well  again.  That  was  knowledge  enough  ! 

"  She  let  me  kiss  'er  right  afore  mother,"  he  thought, 
with  rapture.  And  the  echoes  of  his  happiness  were  re- 
peated about  him  multitudinously,  like  voices  calling 
from  over  the  sea. 

At  home  Emma  got  out  the  bread-board  and  mixing- 
pan  for  baking.  She  made  large  preparations. 

"Be  ye  gittin'  up  supplies  fer  a  army?"  the  old  worn- 


140 


an  inquired.  "  Great  sufferin' !  that  amount  o'  bread  '11 
last  us  a  month  !" 

And  Emma  answered  : 

"  Well,  they  ain't  no  danger  o'  its  mouldin'  in  this 
climate,  V  it  won't  dry  out  if  we  keep  it  wrapped  up  in 
the  big  tin  box." 

"  No,"  said  the  old  woman,  still  in  wonder. 

"  I  reckon  I  better  make  a  lot  o'  doughnuts,  while 
I  got  a  bakin'  fit  on.  Ye  'member  how  Julius  likes  'em  ? 
They'll  keep,  too.  'N'  if  I  had  the  mince-meat  cooked, 
I'd  make  a  batch  o'  pies.  But  I'll  have  to  let  'em 
go  !" 

She  worked  at  a  white-heat  all  day.  She  met  the  old 
woman's  remonstrances  with  a  strange  fixity  of  the  eye 
upon  something  remote  which  it  was  evident  she  did  not 
see.  "  She's  got  a  fever,"  Mrs.  Irish  thought.  "  She 
ain't  'erself,  nohow.  But  I  can't  make  'er  stop.  'Pears 
like  she  was  sort  o'  wild  over  some  idee  o'  her  own." 

Julius  came  home  in  time  for  supper.  She  met  him 
so  eagerly  that  he  was  half  frightened. 

"  What's  the  matter  1"  he  inquired,  holding  her  close 
to  his  heart  for  a  moment. 

"  Matter  ?"  she  answered.  "  I'm  so  glad  to  be  with  ye, 
Julius !" 

And  with  that  confession  his  fears  vanished,  and  he 
took  up  once  more  the  happiness  which  had  followed 
him  all  day.  His  day-dreams  on  the  range  had  been  as 
sweet  as  slumbers  under  Italian  skies,  and  the  time  of 
awakening  had  not  yet  come. 

After  supper  she  said  good-night  to  no  one,  but  crept 
off  to  her  room  unnoticed.  The  last  she  saw  of  the 
kitchen,  Mr.  Irish,  who  had  slept  all  day,  was  bending 


141 


with  tremulous  studiousness  over  The  Weekly  Nerve,  a 
newspaper  which  he  had  picked  up  in  Donhala  City. 
Julius  was  straightening  the  bent  rowel  of  his  spur.  The 
old  woman  sat  gazing  intently  into  the  fire,  her  hands 
folded,  her  shoulders  drawn  forward. 

Emma  reached  her  room  and  sank  down  upon  the 
bed.  "  I  shall  allus  'member  'em  like  that,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  Oh,  Julius,  Julius !" 

She  lay  for  some  time,  thinking.  She  had  felt  so  safe 
in  this  place,  so  anchored,  so  far  removed  from  her 
dreadful  past!  "It's  my  sin,"  she  repeated  to  herself, 
drearily.  "  It  '11  foller  me  jes'  so  wherever  I  go ;  it  '11 
search  up  V  down  the  world  fer  me,  V  find  me  out." 

She  heard  the  water  in  the  canon  below  the  house 
mourning,  mourning  through  the  dark.  "  My  life  '11  run 
on  jes'  so  in  the  gloom,"  she  thought.  "  Many  a  time  I've 
thanked  God  for  my  strong  body,  but  now  it  seems  more 
a  curse,  fer  I  can't  die  !"  Her  thoughts  began  to  move 
heavily,  taking  up  queer  threads  of  her  past  and  connect- 
ing them  with  her  present.  It  was  old  Briggs,  who  kept 
a  sheep  ranch  down  below  Moab,  who  had  once  said  to 
her  father,  "  If  I  was  Pf esident  o'  the  United  States, 
wouldn't  I  raise  wool !"  The  double  meaning  of  the 
remark  had  struck  her  as  funny,  and  she  had  laughed. 
But  that  was  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Her  father  had 
once  asked  old  Briggs  if  a  certain-  herder  was  as  good  a 
fighter  as  reports  declared.  "  Yes,"  was  Briggs's  answer, 
"  he's  the  greatest  fighter  I  ever  seen — with  beefsteak." 
She  had  laughed  at  that,  too.  Why  had  she  laughed? 
None  of  those  things  were  funny. 

The  noise  of  the  creek  reminded  her  in  a  chaotic  way 
of  the  hungry  rattle  she  had  heard  in  the  Missouri's 


142 


throat  while  crossing  at  Wilson's  Ferry.  She  remem- 
bered how  the  sunshine  fell  black  on  those  turbulent, 
writhing  waters;  how  she  had  run  away  from  her  duties 
time  and  again,  and  sat  under  the  willows,  listening  to 
the  melancholy  flow  of  that  songless,  ceaseless  river; 
how  she  had  opened  her  Bible  at  random,  and  prayed 
insanely  for  some  word  of  divine  approval  for  her  long- 
ing to  fling  herself  into  the  driving  current,  and  so  find 
rest  from  the  world.  She  remembered  the  days  when 
she  had  gone  about  her  work  with  patient  anguish, 
wondering  vaguely  at  the  eyes  wept  dim,  at  the  drawn 
face  bleached  white  with  tears  which  looked  out  at  her 
when  she  passed  the  looking-glass.  What  else?  The 
long  years  through  which  a  growing  hate  for  one  who 
should  have  been  dear  to  her  had  worked  like  slow 
poison  in  her  veins,  had  corroded  her  mind  like  an  acid, 
eaten  its  way  into  the  very  fibres  of  intelligence  and 
action;  and  then,  the  climax  of  her  dreadful  life,  the 
flight  from  home,  the  haunted  journey  across  the  plains 
and  through  the  mountains,  her  walk  to  Cloud  Mountain 
Ranch,  and  the  welcome  she  had  met  there. 

She  dozed  a  little,  still  thinking  vacantly.  What  was 
it  she  had  studied  in  her  geography  at  school — how  long 
ago  that  seemed ! — about  the  dangerous  chain  of  sub- 
merged rocks  extending  from  Holland  to  Jutland  ?  Queer 
that  she  should  think  of  that  now — when  the  pines  were 
saying  good-night  to  each  other  and  her  own  heart  was 
breaking.  But  our  sins  are  like  those  rocks;  we  think 
them  sunk  forever  out  of  sight,  and  they  are  really  very 
near  the  top,  ready  to  show  themselves  and  threaten  at 
every  little  disturbance  of  the  surface.  If  God  had  only 
let  her  die  before  she  learned  to  crave  love  and  happiness ; 


143 


if  only  she  could  find  death  now,  without  paying  there- 
for the  price  of  her  soul !  But  her  old  habit  of  obedience 
to  the  Divine  Will  roused  in  her  faintly,  and  flung  her 
thoughts  into  another  groove.  "  Forgive  me,  Lord — I'll 
try  to  be  good — I'll  try,  I'll  try !"  She  sank  back  in 
self-reproach.  "  We  count  so  much  more  on  what  the 
world's  to  give  us  'n  what  we're  to  give  the  world ;  but 
I'll  learn  to  think  o'  others — I'll  make  myself  live  ac- 
cordin'  to  Thy  will !" 

She  heard  Mr.  Irish,  groaning,  stumble  off  to  bed. 
"  It  '11  be  a  long  day  afore  I  try  to  howl  the  shingles  off 
'm  Conklin's  roof  ag'in,"  she  heard  him  mutter.  "  He'll 
be  well  by  mornin',"  she  thought.  "  'N'  then  he'll  prob'ly 
keep  sober  till  spring."  Then  she  knew  by  the  trend  of 
Julius's  footsteps  that  he  was  arranging  his  mother's 
blankets  about  her  for  the  night.  "  I  orter  a-done  that, 
but  I  couldn't,  this  time.  Now  he's  settin'  the  keg  near 
'er  with  the  campfire  bottle  'n'  the  cup  o'  water  on  it. 
Now  he's  coverin'  up  the  fire."  She  listened  eagerly,  as 
if  for  some  good-night  message  for  herself.  "  Good- 
night !"  her  heart  said  in  the  loneliness.  "  Good-night — 
'n'  good-bye !" 

Again  she  dozed  while  the  house  grew  still.  To  live 
on  without  love — it  was  like  gathering  up  the  sweepings 
of  the  threshing-floor  after  the  grain  has  all  been  carried 
away.  And  she  had  been  so  happy  here  —  so  happy  ! 
Is  joy  always  bought  with  sorrow  ?  Are  tears  always 
the  price  of  happiness  ?  "  I  can't  be  resigned — I  can't,  I 
can't !"  her  soul  cried  out.  "  Religion  ain't  enough — 
God  ain't  enough  ;  I  want  'im,  the  man  1  love — Julius !" 

After  an  hour  she  knew  they  were  all  asleep,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  Mrs.  Irish.  She  rose  softly,  wrapped 


144 


her  shawl  about  her,  and  drew  out  a  bundle  of  clothes 
which  she  had  concealed  under  the  bed.  At  the  window 
she  paused  and  looked  out.  Pale  vapors  were  crowding 
stealthily  along  the  northern  horizon,  and  a  faint  star  or 
two  flared  through  their  misty  edges.  The  night  was 
vocal  with  low  sounds,  blending  with  murmurous  indef- 
initeness.  The  low,  lyric  cry  of  the  water  might  have 
been  a  song  sung  by  Alcseus  in  dreams,  staccato  and 
sweet  in  its  abrupt  pauses  and  beginnings.  Emma  lis- 
tened, leaning  forward  against  the  sash.  The  pines 
cried  out  in  the  voice  of  her  own  soul,  mourning  a  lost, 
unreturning  joy. 

She  raised  the  window  softly.  A  loose  sliver  in  the 
sash  made  a  shrill,  rasping  shriek  against  the  casement ; 
she  paused  in  terror  and  listened,  but  nothing  was  audi- 
ble in  the  house  but  the  snoring  of  the  dogs  as  they  lay 
asleep  by  the  kitchen  fire.  She  tried  the  sash  again, 
and,  by  pushing  upward  obliquely,  raised  it  in  silence, 
and  propped  it  with  a  stick.  Next  she  tossed  the  bun- 
dle to  the  ground  and  crawled  softly  out  upon  the  win- 
dow-sill. Then  she  gathered  her  skirts  about  her  and 
jumped. 

The  distance  was  nothing,  but  the  shock  numbed  her 
for  a  moment.  As  she  crouched  close  to  the  earth  she 
listened  again,  but  nothing  was  audible  from  within. 
"They  won't  miss  me  afore  mornin',"  she  thought. 
"  'N'  by  that  time  I'll  be  in  Donhaly  City,  if  I  ain't  dead 
by  the  way." 

She  arose,  skirted  the  corner  of  the  house,  hurried 
down  the  wagon-road  she  had  climbed  so  doubtfully  on 
that  momentous  evening  of  last  June,  and  found  herself 
on  the  highway  which  overhung  the  gulch.  Here  she  sat 


145 


down  to  regain  her  breath.  She  was  more  tired  than  she 
knew,  and  the  strain  of  her  emotions  was  already  telling 
on  her  severely. 

The  depths  of  the  gulch  were  visible  for  a  little  way 
— murky  spaces  through  which  drifted  ghostly  mist- 
flowers,  and  up  whose  sides  low  noises  ran  shiveringly. 
The  mountains  rose  in  the  moonlight  like  white  thunder, 
the  inky  surge  of  the  foot-hills  seemed  breaking  towards 
her  heavy  and  pendulous,  fringed  with  the  black  foam  of 
pines.  The  stars  in  the  mist  on  the  northern  horizon 
shone  like  silver  roses  in  a  woman's  gray  hair.  The 
moon  looked  down  like  a  tired  white  face,  and  a  slope 
of  red  sandstone  high  up  had  the  flower-like  softness  of 
a  great  field  red  of  clover.  Things  seemed  so  unreal — 
she  could  have  fancied  herself  walking  abroad  in  a 
dream. 

She  arose  and  hurried  down  the  road.  At  the  turn 
which  she  knew  would  hide  the  ranch  buildings  from 
sight  she  paused  and  looked  back.  The  silhouette  of 
the  little  low  house  rose  black  against  the  moonlight ; 
the  rocks  by  the  spring,  the  corral,  the  pines  looked  as  if 
cut  out  of  black  pasteboard.  A  cloud  surged  over  the 
moon,  and  blotted  out  everything ;  then  passed  on,  sub- 
merging the  weltering  stars,  and  finally  trailing  away  into 
nothingness.  She  could  see  the  house  again,  and  her 
eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  it  with  an  effort  of  their  own 
with  which  her  will  had  nothing  to  do.  Surely  she  was 
not  leaving  it  all — the  contented  labor,  the  peace  and 
love  which  had  crowned  her  life  during  all  these  months  ! 
This  was  not  herself  going  out  once  more  to  battle  with 
the  big,  hard  world  —  she  was  dead,  surely,  lying  face 
downward  upon  the  bed  in  her  own  little  room,  and  this 


146 


was  her  ghost  fleeing  out  forlorn  into  the  vast  solitude 
of  the  night. 

Something  in  the  wildness  of  the  thought  urged  her 
on.  She  passed  the  turn  in  the  road  without  looking 
back.  Here  was  the  long  mound,  with  a  pine  at  its  head 
and  another  at  its  foot,  which  Julius  had  once  pointed 
out  to  her  as  a  probable  burial-ground  of  the  Utes ;  with 
the  moon  shining  down  upon  it,  it  certainly  looked 
grave-like  and  haunted.  Here  was  the  slide  of  drift, 
above  which  Mr.  Irish  had  once,  in  a  spasm  of  ambitious 
zeal,  started  to  tunnel  the  hill  in  search  of  gold.  Farther 
on  she  had  taken  a  walk  with  Julius  late  in  summer,  and 
gathered  rose-hips  with  queer  little  warts  on  them.  She 
paused  here  to  rest  again,  but  betimes  she  rose  and  hur- 
ried on.  Her  thoughts  seemed  to  form  themselves  dis- 
connectedly ;  she  communed  with  them,  but  fragmenta- 
rily,  as  if  conversing  in  a  foreign  tongue.  "  I  won't 
brood  over  what  I'm  leavin'  behind,"  she  determined, 
and  tried  to  prove  her  resolve  by  noting  the  aspect  of 
her  surroundings — the  tattered  pennants  of  clouds  float- 
ing above  the  pines,  the  hard  black  shadows,  sunken  as 
by  their  own  weight  below  the  moonlit  flood.  She  kept 
on  thinking  with  vacant  brain ;  she  tried  to  disentangle 
the  music  of  the  pines  from  the  noise  of  the  lashing 
water,  which  sent  cold  tremors  through  the  night  si- 
lence. And  all  the  time  the  habit  of  her  faith  was  upon 
her  and  another  set  of  thoughts  was  busy  with  her  fut- 
ure. "They's  suthin'  in  the  Bible  'bout  good  works, 
but  I  can't  think  it  out  jes'  now.  Christ  forgave  the  thief 
on  the  cross — He  promised  to  meet  'im  in  Paradise.  If 
I  was  to  live  pure  V  spotless  the  rest  o'  my  life,  'ud  the 
Lord  let  me  into  heaven,  I  wonder?  Most  folks  thinks 


147 


too  much  o'  the  manner  o'  their  death  V  too  little  o'  the 
manner  o'  their  life.  But  I'll  change  it  aroun'.  My  Lord 
is  only  tryin'  me  now,  jes'  like  he  did  wunst  afore — He 
wants  to  see  how  much  I  kin  bear.  Shall  I  let  my  own 
conscience  p'int  at  me  V  say,  '  Doth  Job  love  God  fer 
nought  ?'  " 

She  entered  the  flat  above  Corduroy  Bridge.  There 
the  darkness  thickened,  but  high  up  the  moonlight 
dropped  softly  in  among  the  shadows.  The  wind  stirred 
chilly  among  dead  leaves ;  the  rocks  rose  like  the  unac- 
countable creatures  of  one's  fancy ;  they  were  subject- 
ive in  their  closeness  to  her  thoughts.  She  remembered 
stopping  here  in  June,  and  noting  how  the  thick-leaved 
water-plants  swayed  back  and  forth  in  the  current,  and 
how  a  spring  came  filtering  down  through  banks  of  moss 
and  violets.  It  had  been  late  in  the  afternoon  then — 
almost  dark — but  she  had  paused  and  looked  into  the 
quiet  pool  below  the  bridge,  where  the  cliffs  seemed 
bending  to  see  themselves  reflected  against  the  wander- 
ing lights  of  the  sunset  sky. 

Beyond  the  bridge  and  a  little  way  down-stream  was 
a  miner's  cabin  long  since  abandoned.  Its  owner's  name 
had  been  McChesney,  and  there  were  wild  stories  told  of 
his  boisterous  good-nature  and  riotous  life.  He  had  a 
breadth  of  humor  which  embraced  this  world  and  the 
next,  for  he  shot  himself  to  prove  the  falsity  of  a  friend's 
casual  remark  that  McChesney  cared  more  for  his  own 
life  than  for  that  of  his  "  partner."  That  was  long  ago, 
and  the  cabin  was  in  ruins  now  ;  some  said  it  was  haunt- 
ed, but  Emma  did  not  think  of  that.  "  I  mus'  rest  there 
a  minute,"  she  thought,  "  or  I  shall  drop.  The  walls  '11 
keep  the  wind  off,  if  nothin'  more.  How  fur  'd  Julius 


148 


tell  me  'twas  from  the  ranch  to  this  bridge  ?  Only  three 
mile  ?  'N*  I'm  so  tired !" 

As  she  approached  the  cabin  she  was  startled  by  a 
flickering  light  in  the  open  door.  She  paused,  drawing 
back  among  the  pines  and  listening.  A  momentary 
thought  of  McChesney's  ghost  crossed  her  mind,  but 
she  cast  it  aside  as  nonsense.  Then  the  clash  of  a  ham- 
mer against  metal  struck  out  sharply  into  the  night.  She 
drew  a  breath  of  relief.  "  I  'member  now — Julius  tole 
me  they  allus  kep'  tools  'n'  nails  V  waggin-bolts  here, 
so  't  if  accidents  happen  trav'lers  kin  go  in  'n'  repair 
damages.  Mebbe  it's  some  'un  on  the  way  to  Donhaly 
City,  'n'  they'll  gimme  a  lift.  I'll  see." 

She  crept  forward,  intending  to  steal  to  the  door  and 
see  who  was  there  before  discovering  herself.  The  light 
wavered  out,  and  was  reflected  from  the  half-naked  wil- 
lows ;  she  could  determine  its  source  now — a  pine  torch 
stuck  between  two  logs  in  the  wall  of  the  cabin,  and  smok- 
ing blackly  above  its  reddish  flame.  She  crept  nearer, 
leaning  forward  so  as  to  get  a  view  of  the  whole  interior, 
but  found  herself  squarely  in  the  doorway  before  she 
realized  how  far  she  had  gone.  There  the  light  dazzled 
her  for  a  moment,  and  she  closed  her  eyes.  In  the  same 
breath  she  heard  the  hammer  fall  dully  upon  the  earthen 
floor,  and  a  man's  voice  cry  out : 

"Nell!" 

She  looked,  and  saw  Tom  Taylor  upon  the  ground, 
straining  away  from  her,  but  staring  back  with  bursting 
eyes.  His  teeth  showed,  set  and  terrible.  In  the  white 
blank  of  his  face  the  circle  of  his  eyelids  had  the  color 
of  iron  rust. 

"  Nell,  Nell !"  the  shuddering  voice  repeated.     Then 


149 


he  sank  into  a  corner  in  a  shivering  heap,  his  features 
hidden,  his  heaving  shoulders  drawn  together  in  an  atti- 
tude of  abject  fear. 

"  My  God  !  Nell's  ghost !"  This  time  his  voice  rose 
in  a  shrill  animal  cry — she  had  once  heard  a  frightened 
horse  neigh  like  that.  She,  too,  was  frightened — too 
frightened  to  think  of  the  chance  by  which  she  had  been 
taken  for  a  ghost  where  she  had  half  expected  to  find  one. 

She  crept  into  the  cabin,  and  sank  down  upon  the 
ground  near  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  horse  at  whose  shoe  Taylor  had  been  hammering 
swung  around,  and  stood  facing  Emma  with  quivering 
nostrils.  Taylor  himself  had  shrunk  back,  so  that  he  was 
almost  invisible  among  the  wavering  shadows.  His  hat 
had  fallen  off,  his  face  was  buried  in  his  arms ;  he  had 
flattened  himself  against  the  logs  and  the  ground  till  his 
body  looked  as  if  dislocated  at  the  hips.  There  was 
something  tense,  expectant,  in  the  forward  push  of  the 
long,  muscular  neck  away  from  the  light.  A  sculptor 
might  have  chosen  such  an  attitude  for  the  embodiment 
of  listening  fear. 

After  the  first  startled  movement  of  the  horse  the 
place  was  very  still.  The  walls  deadened  the  wailing 
of  the  autumnal  winds  along  the  cliffs  and  the  hissing 
and  swirling  of  the  creek  among  the  rocks.  Emma 
Webster  sat  staring  down  at  the  dusty  floor  with  vacant 
eyes,  hearing  nothing.  A  patch  of  moonlight  fell  through 
the  opening  in  the  roof,  dimmed  and  reddened  by  the 
torch-light. 

Moments  are  hours  in  such  a  strain.  The  silence 
grew  big  with  the  despair  of  the  woman  and  the  terror 
of  the  man.  All  nature  seemed  to  lie  still  and  listen  for 
the  word  which  should  break  the  spell.  The  horse 
stamped  impatiently,  sending  up  a  cloud  of  dust,  which 
caught  a  golden  glitter  from  the  torch.  The  sound 
startled  Emma  without  attracting  her  attention  to  its 


151 


cause.  Her  first  consciousness  was  of  Taylor's  breath- 
ing—  a  sort  of  whistling  rattle,  mechanical  and  hard. 
Thence  her  attention  centred  upon  the  man,  and  she 
sat  watching  him  apathetically  for  some  time. 

"  Reuben  !"  she  said  at  last. 

It  was  not  strange  that  he  failed  to  answer,  for  she 
hardly  heard  her  own  voice. 

"  Reuben !" 

He  heaved  forward  a  little  against  the  logs,  and  then 
lay  motionless  as  before. 

"  Reuben  Goodell !" 

This  time  he  started  as  if  a  shock  had  passed  through 
him,  but  he  still  made  no  answer. 

"  Look  at  me." 

His  breathing  grew  quieter.  She  heard  him  mutter- 
ing to  himself,  over  and  over,  "  My  God  !  my  God !" 

"  Why  should  ye  be  afeerd  o'  me  ?" 

"Go  'way — go  'way!  I  wa'n't  in  at  your  killin',  no-- 
how. Ye  done  it  yerself.  Go  'way  !" 

"  What  makes  ye  take  me  fer  a  ghost  ?    D'  ye  think — " 

"Oh,  I've  seen  ye  afore,"  he  declared  in  a  shrill  voice. 

"  I  ain't  a  ghost — " 

"  Ye  follered  me  wunst  clean  from  Moab  to  Enan 
Dorn's.  I've  slep'  with  the  lamp  burnin'  ever  sence,  or 
I'd  a-seen  ye  every  time  I  shet  my  eyes — you  V  the 
other." 

"  The  other  ?" 

"  The  ole  man — with  the  blood  runnin'  down.  Oh,  I 
know  ye  !  In  the  name  o'  God — " 

But  she  cut  short  his  exorcism. 

"  I  am  Nell  Madden.  Ye've  less  to  fear  from  me  'n 
I  from  you." 


152 


"  Ye  talk  ahead  like  'er,  but  she's  dead — she's  dead !" 

"  Don't  ye  know  my  voice  ?" 

He  raised  his  head,  but  did  not  look  at  her. 

"  She  didn't  say  nothin'  t'other  time — " 

"  She  couldn't  a-said  nothin' — she  had  no  voice.  But 
this  is  reely  me.  Turn  'n'  look  at  me.  Why  did  ye 
take  me  fer  a  ghost?  Do  they  think  I'm  dead — back 
there  ?" 

"  Elizur  Cox  found  Nell  Madden's  body  washed  up  on 
the  bar,"  he  answered,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"  No,"  said  Emma  Webster. 

"  They  said  ye  went  'n'  drownded  yerself  arter — arter 
that  day." 

"  No,"  she  repeated.  "  It  was  some  'un  else.  Look  fer 
yerself." 

He  turned  mechanically  and  did  as  she  commanded. 

"  Ye  look  like  'er,"  he  said.  «  So  'd  the  other  'un  't 
follered  me  that  night.  Well,  ye  ain't  so  worn  with 
the  water  's  she  was,  nohow.  'N'  the  fishes — the  fishes 
'd  been  at  the  other  'un,  Nell.  I — I'm  glad  ye're  livin', 
I  swear.  I  felt  sorter  'sponsible  fer  ye  arter — knowin' 
what  I  did."  He  was  very  pale,  but  his  eyes,  which 
could  measure  and  calculate  even  in  terror,  lost  some- 
thing of  their  fear  as  he  gazed.  "  Ye  be  flesh  'n'  blood, 
I  do  b'lieve,"  he  finally  said. 

"  I  reely  be." 

" 'N'  ve  didn't  drownd  yerself?" 

"  I  thought  o'  it — but  I  didn't  dare." 

»  Why  ?" 

"  With  that  sin  fresh  on  my  soul  ?  Ye  wouldn't 
a-dared,  yerself !" 

He  started  strangely  and  stammered  : 


153 


"  No — no,  I  reckon  nobody  would." 

"  I'd  come  nearer  to  suicide  no  end  o'  times  afore 
then.  But  why  should  my  ghost  come  back  to  you,  even 
if  I  had  drownded  myself?" 

"  I  said  I  felt  kinder  'sponsible  fer  ye,  arter  seein'  ye 
do  the  deed,  didn't  I  ?" 

He  was  sitting  erect  now  and  facing  her.  His  com- 
plexion had  resumed  its  ordinary  ruddy  brown,  his  eyes 
had  narrowed  to  their  normal  width  of  orbit.  The  shad- 
ows gave  him  an  extraordinary  breadth  of  cheek-bone 
from  a  front  view,  and  as  he  leaned  forward  his  short 
upper  lip  seemed  overmastered  by  his  nose. 

"  They — they  buried  'im,  Nell.  His  brother  came  on 
from  the  East  V  put  up  a  headstun.  They  tried  to  find 
the  murderer,  but  they  never  did.  Ye  outwitted  'em  com- 
pletely. I  had  to  answer  no  end  o'  questions,  but  o' 
course  /  didn't  know  nothin'  'bout  it.  I  merely  found 
the  body.  It's  the  bigges'  kind  o'  relief  to  me  't  ye 
didn't  drownd  yerself !  How'd  ye  happen  to  come  out 
here  ?" 

"  'Twas  a  accident." 

"  Same  here  !  Tryin'  to  give  the  telegraphs  a  wide 
berth  ?"  His  thin,  spreading  lips  expanded  in  a  tremu- 
lous leer.  "  Well,  I  know  how  that  is  myself  !" 

"  Then  ye  run  away,  too  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"  I'd  jes'  's  soon  own  up  afore  a  pal  like  you,  Nell. 
Not  d'reckly  arter  that  day,  though.  I — /  hadn't  no 
reason  to  leave  jes'  then." 

His  emphasis  was  peculiar,  and  she  regarded  him 
gravely. 

"Ye  mean  /had.     Well,  I  know  that." 


154 


"  Ye  don't  deny  ye  done  it  ?" 

"  No." 

A  strange  gleam  lighted  up  his  sullen  dark  eyes. 

"  No  one  helped  ye  ?" 

"  Why  d'  ye  talk  like  that  ?"  she  cried  out,  sharp- 
ly. "  No  one  was  there  but  you.  If  I'd  had  any 
help—" 

Taylor  leaped  to  his  feet  with  an  imprecation. 

"  Lookee  'ere,  Nell  Madden !"  he  cried,  and  a  red  flame 
leaped  up  behind  his  eyes  as  if  some  deadly  chemical 
had  been  set  on  fire  in  there,  "  what's  to  hender  me  from 
makin'  yer  ghost  come  true — alone  'ere  in  the  dead  o' 
night  ?  Take  the  consequences  o'  yer  own  doin's.  Don't 
try  to  rope  me  in,  or  by  the  Lord — " 

"  Ye  couldn't  kill  a  more  mis' able  woomarn,"  was  her 
only  answer. 

"Well,  d'  ye  take  back  what  ye  said  'bout  bein'  helped 
by  me  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  nothin'  'bout  bein'  helped  by  you  or  any 
one.  I  done  it.  I'm  answerable  to  the  Lord  fer  it.  'N' 
He's  punishin'  me  this  day." 

Taylor  moved  back  with  an  abrupt  laugh. 

"  It  was  only  one  o'  my  jokes,  Nell.  Ye  know  I  was 
allus  a  great  joker  —  the  little  joker  they  useter  call 
me  back  there  on  the  Missoury.  Kill  ye?  Lord  love 
ye,  no !  I'm  glad  'nough  to  find  ye  'live,  'n'  and  so  ye 
may  stay  fer  all  I  kerry  in  my  gun." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  sat  with  her  face  turned  away 
from  him,  gazing  out  among  the  suspended,  swaying 
shades  of  the  moonlight.  The  stars  wavered  in  the 
heavy  breath  of  the  night ;  the  shadows  lay  along  the 
leaf-strewn  ground  with  mysterious  distinctions  and  dif- 


155 


ferences  ;  the  creek  murmured  meaninglessly,  like  one 
disturbed  in  a  revery. 

Taylor  leaned  back  against  the  logs  in  a  conversa- 
tional attitude. 

"  I  don't  mind  tellin'  ye  what  made  me  skip  the  ken- 
try,  's  long  's  ye're  in  the  bizness,  too.  Well,  arter  a 
while  folks  begun  to  'cuse  me  o'  the  murder — " 

"  You  ?"     She  turned  on  him  quickly. 

"  Yes,  me.  Ye've  no  idee  how  justice  gits  twisted  in 
the  hands  o'  lawyers  W  detectives,  Nell.  Well,  I  got 
wind  o'  it,  V  made  up  my  mind  I'd  better  not  stan'  a 
trial ;  so  I  left  between  two  days." 

"  But  what  'd  they  say  o'  me  ?" 

"  Somehow  ye'd  sorter  got  into  the  background  by 
this  time  ;  V  everybody  thort  the  drownded  body  was 
yourn.  Some  folks  went  so  fer  's  to  say  I'd  made  'way 
with — with  him  fust  V  you  arterwards  —  jes'  see  how 
folks  will  talk!  Well,  what  had  I  to  stay  fer?  If  ye 
was  drownded,  they  wa'n't  no  chance  o'  your  comin' 
back  to  clear  me  ;  V  as  fer  the  ole  man,  he  was  gone, 
fer  sure.  So,  as  I  said,  I  jes'  nachelly  skipped  out." 

"  'N'  then  ?" 

The  heavy,  sullen  jaws  closed  in  a  hesitant  pressure. 

"  'N'  then — well,  I'd  allus  fancied  I'd  like  the  climate 
o'  Collyraydo,  as  I  struck  out  this  way.  I  was  amongst 
the  Greasers  down  South  fer  a  while.  Then  I  come  up 
'ere." 

He  looked  at  her  with  cunning  examination,  his  low, 
vertical  forehead  slanting  towards  her  from  among  the 
shadows. 

"  I  like  it  purty  well,"  he  added. 

She  was  gazing  out  into  the  moonlight  once  more. 


156 


"  Where  was  ye  goin'  to  when  ye  happened  to  stumble 
in  on  me  ?"  he  asked.  "  'D  ye  know  I  was  'ere  ?" 

"  How  could  I  ?  If  I  had,  I'd  a-gone  by  on  the  wind. 
I  seen  ye  to  Irish's  yistiddy  arternoon." 

"  I  was  there.  Bad  foot  on  that  red  beast.  Dry  air 
more  'n  anything  else — V  corns.  That  tiptoein'  Julius 
don't  know  no  more  'bout  a  hoss  'n  a  hog  knows  o'  the 
kingdom  o'  heaven.  How'd  ye  happen  to  see  me  ?" 

"  I  went  out  to  the  rocks  by  the  spring  'n'  looked  over. 
I  knowed  ye  'thout  seein'  yer  face." 

"  Impressive  back  I  must  have  !"  The  wide,  unrelent- 
ing mouth  pointed  itself  in  a  smile. 

Again  they  were  silent,  Taylor  cracking  his  large 
knuckles,  or  pausing  in  that  to  gnaw  at  his  nails — two 
habits  of  his  which  she  remembered. 

"  Well,  where  was  ye  strikin'  out  fer  ?"  he  finally 
asked. 

"Donhaly  City." 

"  'Cause  ye  ketched  sight  o'  me  in  Irish's  corral  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Irishes  know  ye're  goin'?" 

"  No." 

"  'Pears  like  ye've  got  into  a  habit  o'  runnin'  away 
lately,  don't  it  ?  'Feerd  o'  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Wanted  to  put  a  small  chance  o'  kentry  'tween  us, 
hey  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"Be  ye  hoofin'  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  didn't  ye  swipe  a  hoss  ?  Irishes  's  got  plenty. 
Oh,  I  reckon  'twas  conscience 't  kep'  ye  from  that.  Queer 


157 


't  conscience  should  keep  ye  from  hoss-stealin'  'n'  let 
ye — do  that  other  thing,  I  swear !  But  such  is  life  in 
the  Far  West.  Well,  what  next  ?" 

"  I  want  to  ast  a  favior  o'  ye,  Reuben  !" 

"  0'  course.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  ye  to  lend  me  yer  hoss  's  fur 's  Donhaly  City. 
I'll  pay  ye  fer  it." 

Taylor  burst  into  a  guffaw. 

"  She  wants  the  loan  o'  my  hoss  to  run  away  from 
me  with !"  he  cried,  sobering  up  with  a  hoarse  chuckle. 
"  Well,  what  'd  /  do  ?" 

"  'Tain't  fur  from  here  to  Beanston's.  Ye  could 
walk." 

"  Well,  the  gall  o'  wimmin  !     I  could  walk  !" 

"  I'll  leave  the  hoss  fer  ye  there  to  the  hotel." 

"  Heart  alive  !  she'll  leave  the  hoss  fer  me  there  to 
the  hotel !"  He  faced  her  with  his  watchful,  dishonest 
eyes.  "  Well,  how  much  'ud  ye  be  willin'  to  ante  up, 
now,  fer  the  use  o'  that  buckskin — fer  the  outwittin'  o' 
justice  ?" 

"  Five  dollars." 

"  Five  dollars  nothin' !  Is  that  all  ye  reckon  yer 
skin  's  wuth  ?  Five  dollars  !  If  ye  was  to  make  it  five 
hunderd,  now — " 

"  I  ain't  got  so  much,  Reuben.  I  ain't  only  got  a  little 
't  I  had  left  over  from  what  I  had  when  I  got  here — " 

"  Don't  they  pay  wages  up  on  Cloud  Mountain  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  hadn't  none  o'  it  about  me  when  I  left. 
I'd  pay  ye  more  if  I  had  it,  fer  I  mus'  go." 

"  Well,  what's  yer  hurry,  anyhow  ?  Ye  ain't  ast  arter 
any  o'  yer  friends  back  there  to  Moab.  Why  don't  ye 
inquire  fer  the  news  ?  I  could  give  ye  lots  o'  interestin' 


158 


p'ints.  Oh,  yes — say!  ye 'member  the  preacher  down  in 
Kadesh-Barnea — Clements,  his  name  was — the  tall,  de- 
pressed 'an  with  the  droopin'  ears  ?  Well,  what  d'  ye 
reckon  he's  gone  'n'  done  ?  Married  Phoebe  Morris,  'n' 
gone  to  farmin'.  Now  ye  wouldn't  a  thort  that  o'  'im, 
would  ye  —  the  way  he  was  rakin'  souls  inter  the  king- 
dom ?  But  Phoebe,  she  had  a  tidy  proputty.  I  had  a  eye 
on  it  wunst  myself,  'n'  know  jest  about  how  it  'ud  stack 
up,  'n'  I  reckon  she  was  a  temptation — her  'n'  the  farm. 
'N'  now  he  boards  the  new  preacher,  'n'  runs  the  farm 
'n'  church  both — sorter  union  o'  Church  'n'  State — real 
estate,  see  ?  He  !  he  !  (Purty  good,  that  'an,  wa'n't  it  ?) 
Lord,  I  could  a-had  Phoebe  myself  if  I'd  a-wanted  'er. 
She'd  a-follered  me  to  burnin'  sulphur,  that  gal  would  ; 
but  I  wa'n't  to  be  ketched.  'N'  ole  Clements,  he  use- 
ter  walk  all  the  way  up  from  Kadesh-Barnea  to  Moab 
every  Saturday  night  jes'  to  spark  'er  ; — oh,  they  ain't  no 
fool  like  a  pious  fool,  when  he  gits  his  eye  on  a  gal's 
proputty !  Well,  don't  it  beat  the  airth  to  think  o'  set- 
tin'  here  a-talkin'  at  midnight  with  a  gal  't  I  made  shore 
was  drownded  'n'  doin'  the  etarnity  act  arter  kickin'  up 
sech  a  shindy  as  was  never  heerd  of  in  Western  lowy 
afore  !  Here  I'd  been  over  to  Baumgardener's — ye  know 
them  Dutch  cubs  ? — 'n'  was  on  my  way  home  's  cheerful 
's  crickets  'n'  's  peaceful  's  pie,  when  Spanker  up  'n' 
loosens  a  shoe,  'n'  I  strikes  out  fer  this  cabin  to  fix  it ; 
'n'  jes'  's  I  finishes,  what  does  I  do  but  look  up — 'n'  there 
stan's  Nell  Madden,  white 's  my  best  b'iled  shirt.  Say,  'd 
ye  reely  leave  up  there  'cause  ye  was  afeerd  I'd  blab  ? 
Ye  orter  a-knowed  me  better  'n  that.  It's  a  good  joke, 
though.  Oh,  Nell,  if  them  Irishes  knowcd  ye  like  I  do 
— if  that  high-steppin'  Julius  knowed  ye  like  I  do — 


159 


they  'd  a-fired  ye  bod'ly  out  o'  the  house  weeks  ago,  V 
like  's  not  we'd  never  a -run  acrosst  each  other.  'N' 
what  '11  they  think  when  I  tell  'em  the  hull  bizness  ?  Ye 
know  I'm  goin'  over  there  to-morrer." 

"  Tell  'em?"  she  gasped.     "  Oh,  Reuben,  ye  wouldn't !" 

"  Wouldn't  ?  What's  to  hender  ?  I'd  jes'  like  to  see 
how  Julius  'ud  look  !" 

"Tell  Julius?  Reuben,  I'd  sooner  die  'n  have  'im 
know  !" 

He  gazed  at  her  with  slow  scrutiny. 

"  What  makes  ye  keer  'bout  him  more  'n  the  others  ? 
I  can  tell  who  I  want  to ;  they  ain't  no  strings  tied  to 
me  't  I  know  on." 

Still  scrutinizing  her,  a  quick  guess  flashed  into  his 
eyes. 

"  So !"  he  said,  fetching  a  soft  whistle.  The  heavy 
lines  from  the  corners  of  his  nose  to  his  mouth  length- 
ened and  twitched.  "  So  that's  the  ticket,  is  it,  Julius, 
hey  ?  Well,  I'll  be  darned  !"  He  was  silent,  while  a 
look  of  smirking  audacity  dawned  on  his  face.  Then  he 
slapped  his  knee  till  the  horse  started  back.  "  Well,  if 
that  ain't  jes'  great !  Oh,  Nell,  what  'ud  they  say  back 
there  on  the  Missoury  ?" 

"  Don't  tell  'im,  Reuben !" 

He  ignored  the  tragic  appeal. 

"Oh,  Nell,  Nell,"  he  cried,  with  forced  comicality, 
"  ye're  a  terror  to  heaven  ;  I  swear  ye  be  !" 

She  sank  back  against  the  logs,  closing  her  eyes  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  his  leering  face.  He  watched  her 
with  cruel,  shining  eyes.  The  devil  appeared  as  inev- 
itably in  his  smile  as  does  any  other  artist  in  his  work ! 
This  man  had  the  coward's  instinct  to  crush  weak  and 


160 


helpless  things,  together  with  the  aesthete's  disposition 
to  linger  over  a  striking  situation  and  revel  in  its  details. 
The  combination  in  an  educated  man  would  have  pro- 
duced an  accomplished  villain,  murdering  with  a  well- 
bred  air,  and  preserving  the  rules  of  etiquette  even  in 
crime ;  but  in  Tom  Taylor  the  result  was  a  heartless 
bully,  fearless  in  following  out  his  brutal  whims,  but 
without  a  touch  of  manliness,  for  all  his  courage. 

"  Queer,  ain't  it,  how  things  do  turn  out  ?"  he  remarked. 
"  Here  I  was,  six  months  ago,  dead  in  love  with  ye,  V 
willin'  to  give  my  immortal  soul  if  ye'd  run  away  with 
me ;  'n'  now  here  you  be,  in  love  with  Irish,  V  wantin' 
me  to  run  away  'n'  leave  ye  happy  ever  arter !  This 
world's  a  holy  show,  now,  ain't  it,  when  ye  come  to  git 
a  broad  view  ?  Oh,  I'm  all  over  my  foolishness  long  ago 
— I've  had  half  a  dozen  Mexican  senoritas  on  the  string 
sence  I  seen  ye  last  in  lowy.  But  what  a  world !  Swipes ! 
it  makes  me  laugh  !" 

He  examined  her  still  with  measuring  eyes.  She  did 
not  speak. 

"  Look  'ere,  Nell,"  he  suddenly  cried.  "  S'posin'  we 
make  a  bargain,  right  here  'n'  now.  I  don't  bear  no 
grudge  agin  ye,  not  even  if  ye  wouldn't  skip  the  coun- 
try with  me,  'n'  I  ain't  got  no  wish  to  do  a  bad  turn  by 
yer  Irishman.  If  ye  wanter  marry  'im,  do  it.  I  won't 
say  a  word  to  bender." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  'im,"  was  the  dull  answer. 

"  I  promise  never  to  tell — I'll  swear  to  it  by  the  holy 
poker,  or  anything  ye  like.  I'd  like  to  see  you  'n'  Ju- 
lius hit  it  off." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  'im,"  she  repeated. 

"  But  if  ye  made  shore  he'd  never  know — " 


161 


"  I  couldn't  make  shore." 

"  Ye  mean  I  wouldn't  keep  my  word  ?" 

"  I  know  yc  wouldn't,  if  ye  felt  like  breakin'  it !" 

"Well,  chaw  me  up!  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  't  'ud 
tell  me  that !" 

"  That  ain't  the  main  thing,  though.  Even  if  Julius 
never  knowed — " 

"Well?" 

"/'d  know.  It  'ud  be  a  wicked  thing  to  deceive 
'im." 

Taylor  whistled  again. 

"  Talk  o'  sech  trifles  's  that,  arter  what  ye  done  las' 
June !  D'  ye  still  read  yer  Bible,  Nell  1  I  shouldn't 
wonder — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  ye  had  it  there  in  that 
bundle  this  very  minute  !" 

He  had  seated  himself  once  more,  and  had  braced  his 
elbow  on  his  knee,  leaning  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  with 
the  forefinger  extending  behind  his  coarse,  spreading 
ear.  His  heavy,  straight  nose,  curving  largely  at  the 
end,  seemed  strangely  prominent,  thrust  out  into  the 
light.  A  horizontal  line  in  his  chin — the  remains  of  a 
boyish  dimple — was  momentarily  revealed,  and  then  his 
high  cheek-bones  and  large  ears  seemed  to  multiply  as 
the  torch  fell  to  flickering  again. 

"  If  I  's  you,  Nell,  I  wouldn't  run  off  ag'in.  Stay  V 
face  the  music.  I  tell  ye,  I'll  be  gen'rous — I  won't  say 
a  word.  'Tain't  no  use  in  shinnin'  out  like  this ;  ye'll 
git  in  the  habit  o'  it,  'n'  never  settle  down.  Stay  with  it, 
Nell — stay  with  it !  I'd  like  to  have  a  ole  friend  'round 
to  talk  over  ole  times  with — I  reely  would.  Dassen't  ye 
bargain  with  me  ?  I  won't  tell  on  ye  if  ye  won't  tell  on 
me.  Ye  see,  bein'  under  a  strange  name  'n'  in  a  furrin 


land,  's  ye  may  say — well,  folks  might  lose  confidence 
in  me  if  ye  was  to  blab.  Come,  is  it  a  go  ?" 

"  I  won't  blab,  but  I'm  goin'.  The  Lord  's  p'inted 
the  way,  V  it's  fer  me  to  follcr  it." 

"  Oh,  when  ye  git  to  mixin'  the  Lord  up  in  the  bizness, 
that  complicates  it.  What's  the  use  o'  draggin'  Him  in  ? 
It's  all  atween  you  'n'  me — let's  op'rate  on  that  basis." 

She  arose  wearily. 

"  I  know  what  ye  want  me  to  stay  fer.  It's  to  have 
suthin'  't  ye  kin  threaten  'n'  tease  'n'  torment  the  life 
out  of.  No  !  'N'  if  ye  won't  lend  me  yer  boss — " 

"Well,  I  won't — not  for  no  five  dollars,"  declared 
Taylor,  promptly. 

"  Then  I  mus'  walk  it." 

"  S'posin'  I  was  to  ride  up  to  Cloud  Mountain  'n'  set 
Julius  arter  ye  ?" 

"  I  could  hide  'n'  let  'im  pass." 

"  He'd  hunt  till  he  found  ye.  He's  got  a  jaw  on  'im 
like  a  mule.  'N'  if  he  loved  a  gal — " 

"  Ye  kin  do  what  ye  like.     He'll  never  find  me  alive." 

Taylor  peered  out  at  her  from  between  his  stiff,  sparse 
eyelashes.  He  examined  her  calculatingly,  passing  his 
hand  across  his  forehead.  His  hair  looked  fine  and  soft, 
but  was  unaccountably  stiff,  and  after  the  pressure  of  his 
hand  was  removed  it  resumed  precisely  its  former  droop- 
ing rigidity. 

She  turned  towards  the  door,  picking  up  her  bundle 
automatically.  Before  her  were  the  moon-silvered  wil- 
lows, the  shadow-splashed  bottom,  the  cliffs,  and,  above 
all,  the  mountains,  sleeping  the  long  slumber  of  the 
ages. 

"  Ye  won't,  then.     Well,  good-bye,"  he  said. 


163 


But  at  the  threshold  she  paused  in  startled  dread. 
"  Some  'tin's  comin' !"  she  cried. 

And,  indeed,  all  at  once  the  dull,  regular  beat  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  was  audible  beyond  the  bridge.  On  it  came 
with  a  harsh,  xylophonic  rhythm.  Then  a  sudden  sharp 
concussion  split  the  night  silence  as  the  horse,  ridden 
furiously,  struck  the  vibrating  planks. 

"Who  is  it?"  Tom  Taylor's  eyes  asked. 

Emma  peered  out  hurriedly  into  the  moonlit  open,  but 
instantly  drew  back. 

"  Run — hide  !"  she  cried,  with  a  frantic  gesture.  "  It's 
Julius !" 

Taylor  opened  his  sullen  black  eyes.    He  did  not  run. 

"  Julius  ?  Well,  I'll  be — !"  And  his  lips  stiffened  in 
a  slow  smile. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

EMMA  bent  forward,  close  to  the  door-frame,  listening. 
The  strain  of  her  attention  seemed  to  tame  and  subju- 
gate the  noise  of  the  pines  and  the  water,  and  make  the 
night  passive.  For  the  moment  she  was  incapable  of 
hearing  anything  except  the  sound  she  dreaded.  Had 
Taylor  fired  off  his  gun  close  to  her  ear,  she  would  not 
have  noticed  it.  Then  the  tension  relaxed,  and  her  shoul- 
ders drooped  a  little  in  sympathy  with  the  diminished 
strain  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Kin  ye  hear  'im  ?"  Taylor's  whisper  cut  into  the 
silence  like  a  fine  thread  drawn  hard  across  shrinking 
flesh. 

"  No." 

"  Ain't  he  nowheres  in  sight  ?" 

"  Can't  ye  git  away  ?"  she  whispered  back.  "  He 
mustn't  find  ye  here  !" 

"  What  d'  ye  reckon  he'd  do  ?"  The  question  was  not 
asked  from  fear — Emma  Webster  knew  that. 

He  was  standing  negligently  between  two  upright 
slabs  which  had  been  nailed  against  the  logs,  and  in  this 
position  he  looked  like  some  monstrous  metope  between 
ruin-traces  of  triglyph  and  cornice.  The  shadows  rushed 
silently  about  him,  tumbling  together  in  opaque  heaps, 
and  flattening  out,  crossing  and  recrossing,  expanding 
and  shrinking,  swaying  forward  and  back.  The  dust 
stirred  up  by  the  horse's  trampling  still  made  a  golden 


165 


mist  in  the  air.  Through  the  broken  roof  the  sleepless 
stars  looked  down,  and  the  pine  branches  swayed  darkly. 

"Kin  ye  hear  'im  'long  the  bottom  yit?" 

"  No.     He's  still  somers  behind  the  trees." 

"  It  '11  look  ruther  bad  fer  ye,  won't  it,  to  be  ketched 
'ere  alone  with  a  man  at  this  time  o'  night — " 

"  Ain't  they  a  winder  ?"  she  whispered.  "  A  back 
door — " 

"  Back  doors  'n'  winders  ain't  so  very  much  a  drug 
in  the  market  at  this  minute,  be  they,  now  ?" 

"  Couldn't  ye  crawl  through  the  ruff  ?" 

"  I  reely  can't  jump  so  high  ;  my  trainin'  was  all  on 
the  horizontal." 

"  Ye  could  climb  up  on  the  boss's  back." 

"But  I  couldn't  pull  'im  up  arter  me,  'n'  how  'd  ye 
'count  fer  'im  if  he  was  left  behind  ?" 

"  God  help  me  !"  she  cried  in  despair. 

"  Better  call  on  the  devil,"  advised  Taylor.  "  He's  al- 
lus  on  hand  'n'  willin'.  I  might  put  out  the  torch — ' 

"  Do — 'n'  hurry  !"  she  breathed. 

"  But  I  reckon  I  won't." 

She  made  a  dash  at  the  burning  brand  herself,  but  he 
placed  his  burly  figure  in  her  way. 

"  What  d'  ye  want  to  do  that  fer  ?  He's  seen  the 
light  —  he  couldn't  help  it.  It  'ud  be  wuss  fer  ye  if  he 
found  us  'ere  in  the  dark  !" 

She  could  not  tell  whether  the  precaution  originated 
in  some  source  of  latent  manhood,  or  whether  he  only 
meant  to  tantalize  her. 

"  How  ye  mus'  love  'im  to  be  so  'feerd  o'  'im  !  Oh, 
stan'  up  to  it,  Nell !  That's  the  way  to  do  when  ye  git 
into  a  fix— stan'  up  to  it  V  face  it.  Tairi't  never  's  bad 


166 


's  wot  ye  cal'late  it's  going  to  be.  Face  the  enemy  fair 
'n'  square,  'n'  don't  give  'em  a  chance  to  git  a  fall  out  o' 
ye.  He's  comin' — listen  !" 

She  could  hear  nothing  but  the  creek  chafing  and 
fretting  through  the  narrow  defile  below  the  cabin,  and 
the  wind  drawing  in  tremulous  breaths  among  the  trees. 
The  stars  glittered  like  particles  of  mica  in  a  gray  wall ; 
a  thin  cloud  floated  up  and  dulled  the  moonlight. 

"  He  must  a-passed  on,"  she  said,  her  mind  fluctuat- 
ing between  hope  and  fear. 

«  No— listen !" 

Then  she  distinguished  the  thud  of  approaching  hoofs 
along  the  moist  bottom. 

"  That's  him,"  said  Taylor.  "  He'll  be  'ere  in  a  min- 
ute. Be  ye  prayin',  or  what  makes  yer  lips  go  that  way? 
He'll  make  shore  ye  met  me  'ere  by  app'intment — Lord, 
what  a  go !  Don't  take  it  so  hard,  Nell — ye  look  's  blue 
's  a  bag  o'  indigo.  Tell  'im  yer  reel  opinion  o'  me — yer 
face  allus  helped  ye  out  on  the  truth.  He'll  b'lieve  ye — 
'n'  ye  kin  kiss  'n'  make  up.  Yes,  he'll  be  'ere  in  a  min- 
ute." 

That  minute  seemed  an  age.  She  kept  her  eyes  riv- 
eted on  the  open  outside  the  door.  A  fallen  log  lay 
black  under  the  willows  like  a  boat  under  a  bank.  The 
moon's  silver  lances  dropped  softly  among  the  pines ; 
the  cliffs  beyond  the  road  loomed  like  some  gigantic 
fortress  with  crenellated  towers.  There  was  a  movement 
of  thin  clouds  high  up,  like  the  coming  and  going  of  vis- 
ionary forms,  and  above  everything  rose  the  snowy  peaks 
in  ghostly  outline  against  the  moonlit  sky. 

"  What  d'  ye  reckon  he'll  do,  fust  off  ?"  Taylor  asked. 
"  He  kerries  a  gun,  don't  he  ?" 


167 


The  slow  trampling  hoofs  came  nearer — straight  tow- 
ards the  cabin  door.  Her  eyes  felt  the  black-and-white 
hardness  of  the  night  as  if  it  had  been  stamped  upon  her 
retina  with  a  steel  die  —  the  trees  with  their  grotesque 
duplicates  of  shadow,  the  cliffs  silvered  along  their  edges 
by  the  moon.  The  night  made  a  ghostly  sound  of  its 
own  stillness — low  moan  ings,  soft  whisperings  dying  out 
in  remote  sibilance  ;  but  above  it  all  she  heard  the  rasp- 
ing of  willow  branches  against  a  horse's  sides,  the  yield- 
ing of  loamy  soil  beneath  a  horse's  hoof.  And  her  mind 
made  a  horrible  picture  of  what  was  to  be — a  quarrel,  a 
crime,  a  tangle  of  consequences  which  neither  time  nor 
death  could  straighten  out. 

The  horse  stopped ;  the  rider  dismounted.  She  heard 
the  willows  rustle  as  he  tied  his  horse  among  them — now 
she  knew  he  had  paused  to  make  sure  of  his  knot.  A 
dull  blankness  of  despair  settled  down  upon  her,  but  she 
still  saw  and  heard.  His  shadow  stretched  out  long  and 
black  on  the  ground  before  he  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
At  that  moment  everything  was  so  still !  But  when  he 
was  really  there,  the  solid  earth  became  vibrant,  the  wa- 
ters burst  into  a  riot  of  song,  and  the  pines  cried  out 
shrilly,  as  if  with  joy  at  the  deed  they  expected  to  wit- 
ness. 

She  said  not  a  word,  but  a  deaf  person  would  have 
believed  she  was  screaming,  She  reached  out  blindly  to 
push  him  back.  Then  the  whirling  noises  of  the  night 
became  material  to  her — they  seized  her  with  the  force 
and  fury  of  a  mountain  torrent,  lifted  her,  bore  her  lightly 
in  a  furious  rush  out  into  the  darkness.  She  sank  down 
with  shuddering  limbs,  her  thoughts  passing  out  into  the 
vacancy  into  which  all  strong  emotion  finally  merges. 


168 


"  Why,  Emmy  !"  cried  Julius,  hastening  towards  her 
and  lifting  her  up. 

He  did  not  look  about  him  for  a  little,  but  gazed  down 
at  her  anxiously.  "  See,  I've  come  fer  ye,  I'm  goin'  to 
take  ye  back.  Ye  kin  ride  behind  me  on  Black  Susan — 
it  ain't  fur.  What  made  ye  leave  us  so  ?  What  had  we 
done  to  make  ye  want  to  go  ?  But  I  knowed  I'd  find  ye 
— I  knowed  ye  hadn't  gone  fur.  Shall  I  bring  ye  some 
water?  'Tain't  but  a  step.  Kin  ye  lean  back  agin  the 
logs  while  I  go  ?" 

She  wrenched  herself  back  into  a  sort  of  semi-con- 
sciousness and  looked  up  at  him,  still  sickened  with  ex- 
cess of  fear. 

"  Now  ye're  better,"  said  Julius.  "Why,  what  a  scare 
I've  had,  fust  findin'  ye  gone,  then  faintin'  away  here  all 
by  yerself  in  McChesney's  cabin  !  Ye  mus'  tell  me  all 
'bout  it  on  the  way  back.  Ye're  shore  ye're  better  ?" 

She  straightened  herself  against  the  logs  with  difficulty. 

"  Yes,  better,  better  !"  she  managed  to  say.  "  Shall 
we  go  now  ?" 

His  eyes  wandered  beyond  her  among  the  shadows. 

"  Why,  whose  hoss  kin  that  be  ?  'D  ye  have  a  hoss  ? 
'Tain't  one  o'  ourn — that's  why  I  made  shore  I'd  ketch 
up  with  ye  so  soon.  'N'  they's  a  man  over  there — Tom 
Taylor !" 

The  owner  of  the  name  came  forward. 

"  Good  -  evenin',"  he  said,  with  elaborate  politeness. 
"  Good -evenin',  Mr.  Irish  —  or  good-mornin' ;  which  is 
it?  Gittin'  chilly,  ain't  it?  Shouldn't  wonder  if  it  'ud 
snow  by  to-morrow,  mebbe  sooner." 

Julius  turned  to  Emma. 

"  He  here  with  ye  ?"  he  asked. 


169 


She  was  silent,  unable  to  answer,  but  quivering  like 
some  helpless  creature  under  the  lash. 

"  Oh,  don't  ast  'er,"  advised  Taylor.  "  She's  too  fur 
gone  to  sense  anything."  He  picked  up  his  sombrero, 
settled  it  carefully,  then  pushed  it  back,  displaying  the  full 
breadth  of  his  low,  sullen  forehead  with  its  overhanging 
tuft  of  hair.  "  Well,  say  !  ain't  this  great,  now  ?  I'm 
allus  in  it — stric'ly  in  it,  as  the  boys  say.  It's  been  jes' 
so  ever  sence  I  's  knee-high  to  a  pollywog,  too — if  a  lot 
o'  terriers  went  out  on  a  toot  'n'  got  drunk  to  the  reelin' 
p'int,  'n'  punched  each  other's  faces,  'n'  mebbe  got  to 
shootin',  I  was  allus  one  o'  the  lot,  V  the  one  't  all  the 
blame  fell  on.  'N'  it's  jes'  so  with  wimmin.  I'm  allus 
mixed  up  with  'em  somehow  —  'n'  allus  wrong.  Dad 
useter  say  I  had  lots  o'  snap  in  doin'  the  devil's  work, 
but  he  never  'cused  me  o'  bein'  industrious  any  other 
way.  Nothin'  ever  happens  'thin  fifty  mile  o'  where  I 
hang  out 't  I  ain't  in  it,  slick  's  a  button.  I  swear,  I  do 
have  luck !" 

Julius  had  faced  him  attentively  while  he  was  speak- 
ing, but  now  he  turned  again  to  Emma. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

But  again  Tom  Taylor  spoke  up. 

"  A  lady  'n'  gentleman  kin  have  a  leetle  private  con- 
versation, can't  they  ?  I  dunno  's  the  time  o'  night  has 
to  be  specified — if  they're  satisfied,  outsiders  orter  be." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Julius,  still  without  noticing  Taylor's 
interruption  ;  "  did  he — did  he — " 

"  No,  I  didn't  run  away  with  'er,"  declared  Taylor. 
"  Let  me  git  a  holt  o'  the  man  't  says  I  did,  'n'  I'll  lay 
the  color  on  'im  !  She  never  run  away  with  nobody, 
though  she  may  a-had  'er  reasons  fer  runnin'  away  from 


170 


somebody,  now  V  then.  Lord,  it's  's  nat'ral  fer  some 
folks  to  run  away  's  'tis  fer  a  Greaser  to  run  the  heels  o' 
his  boots  innard.  Queer  cattle,  them  Greasers — I  didn't 
git  'long  with  'em  's  well  's  wot  I  do  with  the  four-foot- 
ed kind.  'N'  the  wild  smells  they  do  kerry  aroun'  with 
'em !  I  like  this  'ere  part  o'  Collyraydo  better.  I  like 
the  alectricity  in  the  air.  It's  wonderful  bracin'." 

Julius  looked  him  over  from  head  to  foot  very  slowly. 

"  Ye  talk  too  much,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Mebbe  ye'd 
better  let  Emmy  speak.  She's  got  a  tongue." 

"  Emmy  ?"  repeated  Taylor,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"  Emmy  !  She  calls  'erself  Emmy,  does  she  ?  What  a 
purty  idee !  I  swear,  the  gal 's  got  a  neat  taste  in  names 
— though  she  never  had  a  chance  to  show  it  till  she 
come  out  'ere.  They  ain't  nothin'  like  a  change  o'  cli- 
mate fer  bringin'  out  them  little  peculiarities,  I've  no- 
ticed that.  Oh,  it's  a  great  thing,  this  Collvraydo  cli- 
mate— 'pears  like  it  had  a  sort  o'  holy,  christcnin'  in- 
floonce — gives  folks  a  chance  to  be  borned  ag'in  !" 

"  Emmy,"  demanded  Julius,  with  a  deliberation  which 
showed  that  he  was  controlling  himself  with  difficulty, 
"  'd  this  man  come  'ere  with  ye  ?" 

"  No.     I  seen  the  light  V  come  in — that  was  all." 

"  'N'  that's  the  fust  yc  knowed  o'  his  bein'  anywheres 
aroun'  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  what  I  wanted  to  know,"  said  Julius,  gravely, 
turning  to  Taylor  once  more. 

"  Well,"  said  the  latter,  easily,  "  now  't  ye  know  it, 
what  be  ye  goin'  to  do  'bout  it  ?  Goin'  to  take  us  out  'n' 
Irck  us  like  two  bad  little  kids  ?  Oh,  say,  mister,  don't 
do  that !  It  allus  hurts  me  to  be  licked  by  a  man  o' 


171 


your  size.  Please,  good,  kind  mister,  whatever  ye  do, 
don't  lick  us !  We  won't  never  do  so  no  more  !" 

"  Keep  still,  will  ye  ?"  said  Julius,  his  voice  growing 
more  and  more  strained.  "  I  don't  like  yer  way  o'  talk- 
in'  !" 

Taylor  whistled. 

"  Well,  say  !  He  don't  like  my  way  o'  talkin' !  Why 
didn't  I  take  a  sneak  into  my  cold  grave  afore  it  come 
to  this?  He  don't  like  my  way  o'  talkin' !  Oh,  I  wish, 
I  wish  't  I  was  dead,  'n'  the  green  grass  growin'  over 
me !  'D  ye  reckon  she  was  stuck  on  me,  't  ye  waltzed 
into  me  like  that  ?  Well,  she  isn't ;  she  hates  me  like 
she  hates  no  other  work  o'  the  devil.  Yes,  I  own  up  to 
bein'  a  work  o'  the  devil — I'm  a  self-made  man.  But  I 
know  wuss  'uns  —  look  at  her,  there.  I've  knowed  'er 
sev'ral  year — " 

Julius's  eyes  sent  forth  a  gleam  as  sharp  and  cold  as 
the  reflex  of  Syrian  steel. 

"  Let  'er  alone  !"  he  commanded. 

Emma  Webster,  who  remembered  and  understood  the 
resources  of  Taylor's  eyes,  saw  the  anger  gathering  in 
them  no  less  fiercely  than  in  the  eyes  of  her  lover.  The 
studied  gayety  with  which  he  next  spoke  was  more  dead- 
ly than  the  most  formidable  insults  could  have  been. 

"  Let  'er  alone  ?  Yer  arm's  around  'er  —  mebbe  ye'd 
better  foller  yer  own  advice.  'N'  she — look  at  'er !  she 
stan's  up  to  it,  'n'  takes  it 's  nat'ral  's  a  hoss  takes  a  feed 
o'  corn  !" 

"  Don't  mind  'im,"  said  Emma,  finding  her  voice  and 
clinging  to  Julius  as  he  started  forward.  "  What  does 
it  matter  ?  Come,  let's  go  back  !"  But  Julius  was  deaf 
and  blind. 


Taylor  took  up  the  word  again. 

"I  know  this  'ere  Emmy  o'  yourn  darn  well  —  I 
knowed  'er  back  there  in  lowy,  'n'  can  swear  to  'er  every 
time.  Ye  orter  hear  wot  'er  neighbors  say  o'  'er ;  ye 
orter  hear  wot  the  shurriff  says — 'n'  the  p'lice  up  to 
Council  Bluffs.  But  mebbe  she'll  tell  ye  how  she  give 
'em  all  the  slip — " 

She  had  never  imagined  anything  like  the  white  anger 
which  stormed  into  Julius's  face. 

"  Try  to  stan'  up,"  he  said  to  her  in  a  low,  hard  voice. 

But  she  flung  her  arms  about  him,  and  would  not  let 
him  cast  her  off. 

As  in  a  dream  she  saw  Taylor  shift  his  pistol  from  his 
hip  to  his  side,  and  stand  idly  fingering  the  hilt. 

"  Put  it  up — put  it  up  !"  She  thought  she  was  speak- 
ing passionately,  but  her  voice  sounded  dead  and  toneless. 

"  Sorry  to  disobleege  a  lady — if  so  ye  may  be  called," 
was  Taylor's  answer.  She  had  seen  him  once  before 
with  that  oval  of  livid  pallor  about  the  mouth.  "  Say,  if 
ye're  goin'  to  faint,  move  off  'n'  do  it  quiet  'n'  genteel 
in  a  corner,  won't  ye  1  We  ain't  got  no  time  to  monkey 
with  ye.  'N'  I  warn  ye,  the  ground  's  dusty  'n'  hard  !" 

She  turned  away  from  him  with  horror. 

"  Come  with  me,  Julius !"  she  cried.  "  I'll  go  back 
— I'll  go  back !" 

But  he  hardly  looked  at  her. 

"  Him  'n'  me  's  got  to  come  to  a  settlemint  fust,"  was 
Julius's  answer. 

"  I  ain't  told  half  the  truth  'bout  'er— "  began  Taylor 
once  more. 

"  Shet  ycr  lyin'  mouth,  will  ye  ?"  cried  Julius,  "  or 
shall  I  slap  it  shet  ?" 


173 


Taylor  stroked  his  chin  with  a  tremulous,  deliberate 
hand.  The  livid  circle  about  his  mouth  widened  and  paled. 

"  Well,  that  settles  it,"  he  remarked. 

There  was  a  little  silence  while  the  three  tense  figures 
seemed  preparing  for  some  dreadful  act.  The  anger  of 
the  men  had  risen  to  the  pitch  of  murder. 

"  Ye've  got  a  gun  ?"  Taylor  asked  in  an  unmoved  voice. 

Julius  brought  out  his  great  revolver  and  cocked  it, 
muzzle  down. 

"  Is  the  cabin  too  small  ?" 

"  No." 

"  If  ye'd  ruther  go  outside — " 

"No." 

Taylor  laughed  at  the  iterated  negatives.  Emma 
watched  their  white,  passionate  faces  with  the  tragic  en- 
durance of  helplessness.  Would  not  God  speak  ?  But 
no  sound  came  but  the  quiet,  untrembling  voices  raised 
above  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  water. 

"  They  ain't  nothin'  surer  'n  a  little  room  fer  sech 
work,"  declared  Taylor.  "  Shall  we  stan'  back  agin  the 
walls  ?" 

"  We  ain't  none  too  clost  jest  as  we  be  now,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Go  over  'n'  stan'  by  the  door,  or  go  outside,"  Julius 
commanded  the  girl,  who  was  still  clinging  to  him. 
"'Tain't  no  place  fer  ye,  nohow.  Why — '11  ye  make 
me  kerry  ye  away  ?" 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  but  she  shuddered  before 
that  smile  and  looked  away. 

"I  shall  stay  where  I  be,"  she  declared,  clinging 
closer.  "  The  bullet  '11  hit  me  fust — I'll  be  dead  afore  it 
reaches  ye.  'N'  then — what  '11  they  be  to  fight  fer  ?" 


174 


"  I  b'lieve  she  means  it,"  laughed  Taylor.  "  I  allus 
knowcd  they  was  wheels  in  'er  head.  We  might  tie  'er 
— my  lariat 's  on  the  saddle — " 

"  No,"  said  Julius.  "  I  kin  hold  'er  agin  my  left  side 
'n'  shoot  with  my  right  hand.  Be  ye  ready  ?" 

"  That  ain't  fair,"  was  Taylor's  answer.  "  That  gives 
me  the  advantage.  I  don't  want  that." 

"  If  /'m  satisfied,  what's  the  rest  to  you  T"1  demanded 
Julius.  "  Take  yer  place.  I'll  count." 

They  stood  opposite  each  other,  their  pistols  raised, 
their  eyes  gleaming.  Emma  felt  herself  crushed  against 
Julius's  side  as  if  in  an  iron  vise. 

And  now  the  supreme  moment  was  come — the  moment 
for  the  dissolution  of  all  things. 

"  One — two — three — " 

Before  the  last  word  was  uttered  she  wrenched  herself 
forward  with  a  mighty  effort.  Shots  and  flashes  came 
simultaneously.  Before  the  vibration  of  the  old  walls 
had  ceased  Emma  Webster  uttered  a  cry  and  fell  for- 
ward. Neither  of  the  two  men  had  been  touched. 

"  My  God !  ye've  killed  'er  !"  cried  Julius. 

"  I  tole  ye  we  orter  tie  'er,"  was  the  cool  answer. 

But  she  opened  her  eyes  and  drew  away  from  her 
lover.  "  My  arm,"  she  said,  in  a  dazed  way ;  "  he  must 
a -hit  my  arm!"  And  she  burst  into  tremulous  sobs 
and  tears. 

It  was  only  a  scratch,  as  Julius  found  upon  examina- 
tion, and  he  bound  it  up  with  his  handkerchief.  But 
he  was  frightened  now — all  the  anger  had  gone  out  of 
him. 

"  That  was  a  clost  call  fer  you,  young  woomarn,"  said 
Taylor,  with  perfect  composure.  "  Ye  moved  'im  jest 


175 


enough  so  't  he  missed  me  'n'  I  missed  ye  both.  Well, 
better  luck  'nother  time.  Shall  we  tie  'er  'n'  at  it  ag'in  ?" 

"  No,"  was  the  immediate  answer.  "  Our  quarrel  kin 
wait." 

Emma  had  been  watching  him  with  wide  eyes.  Now 
she  breathed  freely.  It  was  as  if  she  had  gained  an  ad- 
vantage over  death ! 

Taylor  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  as  I  orter  kick  at  that.  But  say  ! 
a  woomarn  allus  puts  a  black  eye  on  a  thing  like  this, 
don't  she  ?  We  kin  see  each  other  later,  though — " 

"  Is  he  comin'  up  to  Cloud  Mountain  to  live,  arter 
this  ?"  Emma  asked. 

"  Do  ye  want  'im  ?"  said  Julius. 

"  Fer  God's  sake,  no  !" 

"  Then  he  won't  come." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Taylor,  his  eyes  sultry 
with  suppressed  lightnings.  "  But  when  we  even  up 
our  little  accounts — " 

"Yes?"  inquired  Julius.  ",When  we  even  up  our  little 
accounts  ?" 

"  This  '11  be  reckoned  in  along  o'  the  rest — 'n'  big !" 

"  Well,"  said  Julius. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  SEVERE  mental  strain  deadens  the  very  sensibilities 
which  make  it  possible ;  the  shock  passes  into  an  unper- 
ceiving  numbness  in  which  the  easy,  speaking  tone  of  every 
day  becomes  unrecognizable  even  to  the  speaker  as  the 
voice  which  in  a  supreme  moment  rose  to  the  pitch  of 
tragic  fury. 

Of  that  lonely  flight  down  the  mountain  road,  the 
meeting  with  Taylor,  the  coming  of  Julius,  the  quarrel, 
Emma  Webster  retained  only  a  blank  memory  of  suffer- 
ing; the  succession  of  horrors  had  assumed  by  the  next 
morning  the  remoteness  of  a  dim  historic  perspective. 
They  had  happened,  she  knew,  and  they  had  left  their 
mark  on  her,  mentally  as  well  as  physically ;  but  she  had 
grown  old  since  then,  and  could  show  her  scars  to  those 
about  her  without  danger  of  an  intrusive  living  sympathy 
for  what  had  happened  so  long  ago.  When  she  tried,  she 
could  not  represent  what  had  happened ;  the  effort  of 
memory  was  stronger  than  the  revived  image  and  its  ac- 
companying emotions.  The  scene  came  before  her  like 
some  terrible  picture  whose  meaning  she  had  only  guessed 
at,  some  drama  whose  motive  had  shaken  and  mystified 
her.  In  connecting  herself  with  that  night  she  was 
obliged  to  employ  some  such  process  of  self-deception  as 
a  fanciful  man  brings  to  bear  in  order  to  make  him- 
self believe  what  he  is  talking  about.  Her  capacity  for 
suffering  had  been  filled  in  a  moment,  and  it  seemed 


177 


as  if  her  identity  had  been  wellnigh  drowned  in  the 
overflow. 

She  had  changed.  She  felt  it  with  a  dull  apathy  which 
afforded  her  no  material  for  self-pity.  Something  in  her 
had  withered,  had  died  down,  and  left  unparadised  the 
garden  of  her  soul.  And  she  knew  what  it  was  —  the 
hitherto  unconscious  belief  that  somehow,  in  spite  of  her- 
self, in  spite  of  Fate,  her  happiness  would  be  cared  for. 
That  belief  had  been  planted  deep  in  the  soil  of  her  faith, 
resistless  as  self,  stronger  than  justice,  and  to  lose  it  had 
been  like  tearing  away  the  best  part  of  her  life. 

She  did  her  work  about  the  house,  but  the  woman's 
love-dream  which  had  dreamed  itself  out  in  spite  of  cold 
and  darkness,  had  been  dispelled  forever;  she  could  not 
take  up  her  life  with  the  old  energy  which  her  secret  hope 
of  happiness  had  made  necessary.  Her  future  lay  before 
her  without  plan — a  lifeless  continuation  of  that  past  for 
which  she  was  responsible,  and  from  which  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  get  free.  It  was  a  failure — a  ruin  from  beginning  to 
end.  Had  Julius  come  to  her  with  the  battered  old  Cot- 
tage Encyclopaedia  in  his  hand,  and,  pointing  to  the  blurred 
map  of  the  Via  Appia,  said:  ''This  is  the  ancient  circus; 
this  is—"  and  so  on  through  the  whole  dreary  catalogue 
of  localities,  she  would  have  felt  as  much  personal  inter- 
est as  if  a  true  prophet  had  presented  her  with  a  map  of 
her  future.  She  knew  what  it  would  be — she  had  lived 
through  it  in  the  experiences  of  her  past,  as  surely  as  if 
she  were  looking  back  upon  it  from  her  death-bed.  She 
knew  what  she  would  do,  what  she  would  say,  how  she 
would  act  for  all  time  to  come.  Never  again  would  she 
know  the  eager  hopes  and  fears  of  a  living  woman.  She 
would  exist  without  identity,  without  sex-^a  human  ab- 


178 


straction  made  concrete  only  by  a  few  points  of  contact 
with  those  who  really  lived.  She  was  no  longer  an  indi- 
vidual ;  she  was  a  generalized  woman. 

She  grew  paler  and  thinner.  Her  eyes  burned  with  a 
wasting  flame ;  she  looked  as  if  she  had  passed  through 
years  of  silent  struggle.  The  old  woman  watched  her 
anxiously,  not  daring  to  speak. 

One  day  she  found  courage  to  speak  to  Julius. 

"  Suthin'  's  wrong  atween  ye  'n'  Emmy,"  she  declared. 

"  Ye  see  too  much,  mother,"  he  answered,  coldly. 

"  It  don't  take  much  to  tell  the  way  the  wind  blows  by 
the  way  the  trees  lean,"  was  her  grim  parable.  And  Julius 
affected  not  to  understand. 

The  snow  had  come.  Its  approach  was  announced  by 
puffs  of  storm-cloud  in  unexpected  places,  like  smoke 
from  the  rifles  of  bold  skirmishers.  Little  eddies  of  mist 
swirled  along  the  ridges,  poised  above  precipices,  then  dis- 
appeared as  if  underground.  Suddenly  the  peaks  which 
had  been  softly  outlined  in  the  autumn  haze  were  lost  in 
bulging  volumes  of  gray  cloud,  which  rolled  in  as  if  an 
army  of  giants  were  cannonading  the  outer  mountain  wall. 
The  clouds  thickened,  expanded,  filled  the  sky  with  busy 
shadows;  they  descended  along  the  pink  and  bronze 
ridges,  and  thrust  eager,  fumbling  hands  into  every  crack 
and  crevice  of  the  foot-hills.  An  impulse  of  storm  swept 
through  the  very  rocks  ;  the  aerial  billows  rose  in  combing 
surges  till  they  seized  the  sun  and  held  him  under,  strug- 
gling;  they  dashed  cataract-like  into  the  gulches  till  the 
world  was  flooded,  and  valley  and  mountain  lay  on  a  level 
in  the  tumult.  An  icy  wind  streamed  down  from  the 
invisible  summits — a  wind  which  got  under  the  skin  of 
one's  face  and  tried  to  tear  it  loose.  The  cabin  seemed 


179 


to  rise  and  fall  on  the  drifting  cloud-rack ;  hill  and  sky, 
disintegrated,  mixed  and  dragged  each  other  along  the 


When  the  storm  passed,  the  mountains  had  lost  their 
plumbago  shading,  the  forests  were  sunk  in  the  drifts,  the 
gulches  lay  as  if  packed  in  cotton-wool.  Down  in  the 
canons  the  shadows  softened  the  glaring  whiteness  to  a 
pale,  hard  gray,  which  somehow  seemed  the  guardian  of 
the  silence.  In  isolated  groups  the  cattle  weltered  through 
the  white  drifts,  pawing  the  snow  aside  for  the  frozen 
bunch-grass,  or  nibbling  at  the  leafless  underbrush.  The 
creek  lay  invulnerable  beneath  its  breastplate  of  ice  ;  the 
mounds  loomed  blindingly  irregular  in  profile  against  the 
rocks.  On  the  upper  levels  there  were  but  two  colors 
visible :  the  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  white  of  the  snow. 
No  sound,  no  movement  disturbed  the  awful  white  apathy 
of  the  world. 

The  cattle  were  tractable,  and,  for  the  most  part,  re- 
mained in  the  gulches.  On  the  very  day  before  the  storm 
Julius  had  found  an  opportune  tramp  several  miles  away 
on  the  railroad,  taking  advantage  of  a  tie-pass  for  Denver, 
and  had  "  corralled  "  him  for  the  winter.  They  managed 
to  get  a  man's  work  out  of  him,  but  thereby  were  obliged 
to  do  the  work  of  several  men  themselves.  Mrs.  Irish 
called  him  "The  Red-headed  Reproach,"  because  he  pro- 
tested with  every  muscle  of  his  blond,  freckled  counte- 
nance against  the  work  assigned  him,  and  because  he  al- 
ways looked  as  if  putting  up  with  abuse  meekly. 

Abiathar  came  over  from  Barb  Wire  Ranch  on  snow- 
shoes,  and  brought  the  news  that  Taylor  was  to  spend  the 
winter  at  Baumgardener's.  Ernma  Webster  heard  it  with 
a  thankful  heart.  "They  can't  fight  it  out  afore  spring 


180 


now,"  she  thought;  "V  mebbe  I'll  be  dead  afore  then. 
If  I  should  be,  that,  'ud  end  it.  They  wouldn't  be  nothin' 
to  fight  over  if  I  was  out  o'  the  way." 

Julius  talked  but  little  with  her,  though  they  were 
much  together  in  the  house.  Her  eyes  asked  nothing 
more  than  the  forbearance  of  his  silence,  and,  obsequious 
to  her  moods,  but  strongly  at  variance  with  events,  he 
obeyed  her.  He  was  glad  to  be  silent,  too.  The  memory 
of  that  night  in  McChesney's  cabin  stood  between  them — 
a  memory  which  threatened  and  evaded,  but  never  ex- 
plained. Until  she  spoke,  he  could  say  nothing.  He 
noted  with  a  great  pity  her  changed  manner,  her  hopeless 
eyes,  which  seemed  to  find  no  encouragement  to  trust  in 
human  sympathy.  But  his  very  love  had  its  exactions, 
and  silence  was  one  of  these.  Was  he  learning  to  distrust 
her?  Love  is  a  purveyor  of  honey  and  gall,  but  a  man 
never  tastes  its  real  bitterness  till  he  has  learned  to  suspect. 

When  alone  on  the  range,  floundering  through  the 
gulches  on  his  pony,  or  speeding  along  the  ridges  on  his 
snow-shoes,  the  mystery  of  Emma  Webster's  life  made  a 
horrible  rhythm  in  his  thoughts,  unheeded,  perhaps,  in 
the  exertion  of  the  moment,  yet  dominating  everything, 
like  the  prolonged  tolling  of  a  great  knell.  He  had  lit- 
tle imagination  ;  his  homely  training  had  given  him  a 
homely  mind,  which  fell  prostrate  before  possible  compli- 
cations; he  grasped  but  the  one  fact  that  Taylor  knew 
the  story  of  her  life,  and  that  she  feared  him.  He  ac- 
cused her  of  nothing ;  but  the  knowledge  that  Taylor 
possessed  some  power  over  her  had  touched  his  life  jar- 
ringly, moved  it  from  its  old  spiritual  harmony  into  the 
isolation  of  new  sensations.  If  he  did  not  doubt,  at  least 
he  no  longer  trusted. 


181 


He  was  appalled  at  the  possible  endurance  of  their  es- 
trangement, which  was  growing  day  by  day.  At  night 
he  had  dreams  of  her  which  he  brooded  over  by  day,  and 
made  into  portents  and  allegories.  Once,  in  a  dream,  he 
saw  her  sitting  by  the  open  window,  sewing  on  her  own 
shroud,  while  she  turned  to  him  smilingly  and  asked  if 
the  ruffle  in  the  neck  were  too  wide.  Again,  it  was  sum- 
mer, and  he  was  somewhere  in  the  mountains,  sitting  be- 
side a  river  whose  waters  slid  away  with  a  joyous  exul- 
tation through  wild -rose  thickets  and  odorous  twining 
plants.  He  sat  quite  passive  and  contented,  as  uncon- 
scious of  any  antecedent  state  of  mind  as  if  he  had  been 
just  created.  The  music  of  the  water  dropped  in  upon 
the  calm  of  pleasant  thoughts.  The  high  aerial  peaks 
seemed  like  sentient  things  ;  the  clouds  lay  quite  still 
with  their  bright  sides  towards  the  sun.  Suddenly  he 
was  thrilled  by  the  inward  sense  of  a  Presence  near  and 
beautiful,  and,  looking  up,  he  beheld  Emma  Webster,  all 
robed  in  glittering  white.  "  She's  dead,"  he  thought, 
tranquilly;  "and  this  is  heaven."  She  looked  like  some 
rare  white  flower  that  had  absorbed  the  sun  and  dew  of 
the  morning.  And  as  he  looked  he  involuntarily  fell  to 
wondering  whether  her  gown  was  silk  or  cotton.  But 
there  played  a  ring  of  white  fire  all  around  her  hair,  and 
when  she  clasped  her  hands  and  lifted  her  eyes  as  if  she 
saw  God  coming,  he  knelt  and  worshipped  her,  though 
certain  now  that  her  gown  was  cotton. 

He  awoke,  and  lay  for  some  time  thinking  about  it. 

"The  gown  stan's  fer  my  doubts  o'  'er,"  he  concluded. 
"  Must  I  doubt  'er — even  in  heaven  ?" 

Emma  understood  the  struggle  which  was  taking  place 
in  his  thoughts,  and  gradually  there  grew  into  her  indif- 


ference  a  single  desire — the  suicidal  wish  to  tell  him  the 
story  of  her  life  and  bear  his  judgment.  "  He  hates  me 
now,"  she  said  to  herself,  finding  a  fierce  joy  in  exag- 
gerating their  estrangement.  "  How  '11  he  feel  when  I 
tell  'im  everything?"  There  was  a  horrid  fascination  in 
the  thought  of  provoking  this  man's  scorn,  whose  love 
she  had  outraged.  She  waited,  hoping  miserably  that 
something  would  happen  to  precipitate  her  resolve.  But 
nothing  happened  —  only  the  ceaseless  round  of  daily 
tasks,  which  she  had  learned  to  perform  with  the  un- 
thinking exactness  of  a  machine.  "  I  mus'  tell  'ira,"  she 
thought,  with  hysterical  decision.  "  Nothin'  can  be  wuss 
'n  this."  But  her  heart  failed  her  at  the  time  resolved 
upon,  and  her  secret,  though  not  its  consequences,  was 
still  her  own. 

But  one  morning,  when  they  were  alone  for  a  moment, 
she  came  close  to  him,  and  looked  him  in  the  face  with 
a  strange,  spontaneous  courage.  She  began,  with  eager 
abruptness : 

"Julius,  I  want  ye  to  know  all  'bout  myself.  Ye  tole 
me  long  'go  it  was  yer  place — 'n'  now  I  know  it's  true. 
Ye'll  come  to  my  room  arter  the  supper  things  is  put 
away  ?  I  kin  tell  ye  then." 

His  face  softened  visibly. 

"  Ye're  shore  ye  want  to  do  it?" 

"  Yes.  Why,  I  can  bear  anything  now  !  'N'  when  ye 
know  the  hull  story — " 

"  I  shall  love  ye  better  'n  ever,"  he  declared,  drawing 
her  to  him  and  then  letting  her  go. 

He  was  not  alone  with  her  again  all  day.  She  moved 
here  and  there  with  that  household  diligence  which  had 


183 


gained  favor  in  Mrs.  Irish's  eyes,  a  pathetic,  wistful  creat- 
ure, unconsciously  crowned  and  sainted  in  her  own  un- 
selfishness. Julius  took  up  the  Cottage  Encyclopaedia  and 
tried  to  read.  .But  he  found  little  to  stimulate  his  in- 
terest in  the  statement  that  Emporise  in  Africa  was  one  of 
the  chief  granaries  of  Rome,  and  that  the  climate  of 
Egypt  is  generally  delightful,  its  main  drawback  being  the 
Khamseen  wind.  His  eyes  wandered  out  along  the  vast 
white  silence.  A  few  faint  clouds  were  frozen  into  the 
gray  air,  like  ships  clogged  in  polar  ice,  and  stirring  faint- 
ly as  if  trying  to  signal  each  other.  His  glance  returned 
to  Emma.  How  patient,  how  gentle,  how  good  she 
seemed,  bending  above  her  work,  intent  and  silent!  A 
sort  of  lofty  transmutation  passed  through  him ;  his 
doubts  vanished,  he  believed  in  her  utterly.  "  It  can't  be 
nothin'  bad.  Somehow  she's  deceived  in  her  own  self. 
What's  the  use  fer  'er  to  confess?  I  kin  trust  'er  even 
ag'in  'erself.  She  couldn't  a-done  nothin'  bad.  'N'  if  she 
had,"  his  heart  added,  "  God  help  me ! — I  should  love  'er 
jes'  the  same !" 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  was  a  still,  listening  night.  After  his  "  chores " 
were  done,  Julius  stood  in  the  shed  door  and  looked  out. 
The  moon  was  shining.  He  could  have  read  small  print 
by  that  fine,  severe  light,  which  made  a  sort  of  ethereal- 
ized  day  throughout  the  mountain  world.  The  snow  had 
shaken  out  of  the  pines,  and  left  them  portentous  in  silent, 
attentive  groups ;  the  drifts  were  silvered  cold  with  moon- 
touched  crystals.  Julius  saw,  but  his  attention  was  turned 
inward. 

His  faith  in  Emma  Webster  was  not  shaken — he  had  told 
her  the  truth  in  that.  What  was  it,  then,  that  troubled 
him — what  doubt,  what  formless  dread?  He  had  a  dis- 
mayed sense  of  having  lost  something  intangible  but  pre- 
cious. He  tried  to  believe  it  was  only  a  phase — the  reac- 
tion of  his  over-urgent  hopes,  perhaps  the  reverse  side  of 
his  joy — but  he  could  not.  He  turned  away  hastily  and 
went  into  the  house. 

He  found  her  waiting  in  her  room,  as  she  had  promised. 
The  candle  made  flickering,  concentric  circles  on  the  ceil- 
ing, the  fire  in  the  sheet-iron  stove  pointed  a  long,  straight 
finger  towards  the  wall.  The  curtain  was  drawn,  but  the 
moon  on  the  snow  outside  shone  more  brightly  than  the 
fire  and  the  candle  together,  for  the  glimmering  whiteness 
out  there  made  the  meshes  of  the  curtain  visible,  and  one 
could  even  follow  the  outline  of  the  peaks. 

Emma  was  paler  than   he   had   ever  seen  her  before. 


185 


There  was  something  ghastly  in  the  immobile  white  of  her 
cheek  and  forehead.  At  sight  of  her  his  recent  doubt 
vanished  and  all  his  old  tenderness  returned. 

"  Ye're  excited  to-night,"  he  said,  pressing  her  back  in 
her  seat,  as  she  rose  in  agitation  at  his  entrance.  "  Why 
should  ye  tell  it — at  least,  now  ?  Let  it  go — what's  the 
dif'rence?  I  don't  care  now."  This  was  quite  true,  but 
even  in  his  anxiety  for  her  immediate  comfort  he  found 
himself  wondering  whether  he  could  always  be  satisfied 
with  ignorance. 

Her  eyes  grew  large  and  remonstrant. 

"  Julius,  don't  be  good  to  me,"  she  whispered.  "  That 
kills  me !  To  have  ye  kind  to  me  arter  all  I've  done!  Say 
I  mus1  tell  it — rave  at  me,  call  me  names,  Julius — only 
don't,  don't  be  good  to  me  any  more  !" 

He  was  pale,  too,  but  his  smile  filled  his  face  with  some- 
thing more  vivid  and  beautiful  than  color. 

"  Come,  then,  we'll  talk  it  over  like  good  friends,"  he 
said,  soothingly.  "Emmy,  we  love  each  other,  don't  we? 
So  why  shouldn't  we  talk  over  what  concerns  us  ?  Not 't 
I  keer  for  it  now  ;  I  own  I  did,  but  I've  got  over  that.  I 
love  ye — that's  all  I  need  to  know.  Don't  go  on  if  ye'd 
ruther  not;  let  it  be  where  'tis.  See,  Fm  satisfied,  why 
shouldn't  you  be  ?" 

"  I  want  to  tell  it,"  she  answered,  with  that  quick,  dis- 
tinct utterance  which  expresses  an  imperative  need. 

"  Why,  then,  a  few  words  '11  set  it  all  right,  V  we  kin 
be  's  happy  's  ever.  'N'  take  yer  own  time  V  way,  dear. 
Tell  me  jes'  's  much  or  little  's  ye  think  best." 

"  I'll  tell  it  all,  word  for  word,  from  the  beginnin'.  Ye 
think  ye  love  me,  Julius — " 

"  I  do  love  ye,"  was  his  steady  answer. 


186 


"  No,"  she  objected,  in  a  low,  passionate  voice,  "  hate 
me,  hate  me !  It's  the  punishment  God  meant  fer  me — 
the  punishment  I  deserve."  She  stopped  suddenly,  her 
face  averted,  her  bosom  heaving.  He  could  have  taken 
her  in  his  arms  and  comforted  her,  she  seemed  so  afraid  of 
him  and  of  what  she  had  to  confess.  His  doubts  were  all 
silent  now,  and  only  his  great  love  spoke. 

The  candle  shone  directly  into  her  face,  and  she  uncon- 
sciously put  up  her  hand  to  shield  her  eyes.  He  went 
over  and  pushed  it  back  so  that  her  features  were  alto- 
gether in  shadow. 

"  Set  down  near  'nough  so  't  I  won't  have  to  speak 
loud." 

Gradually  her  eyes  lowered  before  his,  and  she  settled 
back,  letting  her  hands  fall  loosely  over  each  other  in  her 
lap.  She  sat  thus  for  some  time,  silent,  self-absorbed,  her 
face  hardening  into  those  brooding  lines  which  fix  the  sor- 
rows of  a  lifetime.  He  could  not  understand,  except  by 
the  instinct  of  sympathy  and  premonition,  the  busy  search 
of  her  mind  into  the  past,  the  remorse  which  had  made 
her  life  a  prey  to  memory,  and  which  was  to  fasten  vam- 
pire-like upon  his  own  happiness.  He  was  silent,  know- 
ing that  it  was  better  to  let  her  follow  out  her  thoughts 
in  her  own  way.  Could  it  be  possible  that,  after  all,  her 
revelation  was  something  more  than  the  phantasm  of  a 
supersensitive  conscience?  He  looked  at  her  with  a  mo- 
mentary revival  of  the  fear  he  had  felt  before  entering. 

Finally  she  turned  her  face  towards  him  so  that  their 
eyes  met. 

"  I  mus'  speak  low,"  she  said  :  "  yer  mother  might  hear 
— she  won't  be  asleep  fer  hours." 

He  drew  his  chair  a  little  closer  to  hers. 


187 


"  I  kin  hear,"  he  said. 

She  leaned  forward  till  her  eyes  fixed  his  on  a  level  with 
her  own.  Their  narrow  circles  of  faded  blue  had  widened 
into  vivid  spheres,  through  which  a  restless  light  glittered. 
Her  nostrils  fluttered  in  sympathy  with  her  interrupted 
breathing;  but  there  was  resolve  in  every  feature.  He 
would  have  pleaded  with  her  further  to  keep  her  own  se- 
cret, but  he  saw  that  it  was  useless.  Besides,  an  increas- 
ing dread  of  her  revelation  made  him  powerless  before  his 
own  potential  misery ;  her  look  was  such  that  he  under- 
stood the  terror  of  her  mind  in  contemplation  of  the 
thought  she  was  about  to  utter — understood  it  without 
knowing  the  cause.  Such  terror  could  originate  only  in 
some  sort  of  reality — his  good  sense  told  him  that. 

"  Julius,  I'm  a  sinful  woman  !" 

He  shrank  from  her,  in  spite  of  a  momentary  resolve 
to  betray  no  feeling.  The  words  were  indefinite,  but  the 
look  and  the  tone  were  specific,  horrible.  Never  had  he 
realized  till  that  moment  the  power  of  the  human  face  to 
stamp  the  impress  of  fear  upon  the  soul  of  another.  He 
listened  for  her  next  words  with  an  eager  dread.  They 
came  faintly,  but  without  hesitation. 

"  Have  ye  ever  thort  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to  pray 
to  be  delivered  from  evil — pray  till  yer  nerves  quiver  V 
yer  heart  breaks — 'n'  yit  go  straight  ahead  '»'  do  it  ?" 

The  word  "  evil "  was  a  postponement,  at  least.  He  drew 
a  breath  of  relief  and  looked  away.  But  her  tense,  self- 
accusing  face  drew  his  eyes  back  with  the  resistless  force 
of  magnetism. 

"  I  mean — murder." 

She  uttered  the  word  quietly.  It  was  followed  by  a 
horrified  silence. 


Then  his  voice  came  back  to  him  in  a  gasp. 

"  Murder?"  He  echoed  the  word  as  a  rock  might  have 
done. 

She  nodded  with  hard  emphasis. 

"I'll  tell  it  as  God  seen  it  happen,  word  for  word." 
She  was  going  on,  but  he  interrupted  her  again  with  that 
long-drawn,  exhalent  echo : 

"Murder!— you?" 

She  did  not  turn  or  falter. 

"  If  it's  so  dreadful  to  hear,  what  d'  ye  reckon  'tis  to 
tell?  But  I  could  stan'  it  to  have  flesh  'n'  bone  torn  apart, 
now  't  I've  made  up  my  mind.  Ye  wouldn't  think  I  could 
clutch  a  knife  'n'  kill  —  have  the  spot  picked  out  afore- 
hand — right  over  a  man's  heart,  'n'  then  drive  the  steel 
straight  home?" 

"Ye' re  mad  to  say  it!"  Julius  cried  out. 

"  Mad  to  do  it  ? — yes.  I  done  it,  though,  mad  or  not. 
Straight  through  the  heart — here."  She  gave  a  thrust  at 
her  own  breast  and  Julius  shuddered.  "  Straight,  quick's 
a  knife  could  go,  with  a  willin'  hand  behind  it!  I'd  thort 
it  all  out  aforehand — I'd  done  it  a  hundred  times  while  I 
laid  awake  at  night."  The  hard,  cold  decision  of  her  voice 
took  shape  and  substance  before  his  eyes  like  ice.  "He 
fell  back  agin  the  kitchen  table.  He  hung  there  a  minute 
by  one  arm ;  then  he  rolled  onto  the  floor." 

Her  voice  grew  inward  and  ventral.  It  was  as  if  her 
memory  were  describing  the  scene  to  her  own  conscious- 
ness, and  no  one  were  there  to  listen.  Julius  watched  her 
with  desperate  eyes. 

"  Ye' re  mad,"  he  said  again.     "  Ye  never  done  that — 


never ! 


"  Listen !"  she  commanded,  in  the  same  remote  voice — 


189 


the  voice  of  a  condemned  soul  calling  from  a  distance. 
Her  terror  was  external  now — it  had  stopped  in  her  eyes, 
and  she  was  gazing  at  him  fixedly.  "  We'd  been  married 
ten  year — " 

"  Married  !"  he  repeated. 

"Didn't  I  tell  ye  he  was  my  husban'?"  she  asked,  in 
low,  unmoved  tones.  "  I  had  the  marriage  c'tif'cate  framed 
V  hung  up  like  mother's.  D'  ye  know" — she  turned  on 
him  suddenly  with  questioning  eyes — "d'  ye  know  who's 
the  wretchedest  o'  all  God's  creators,  Julius?  It's  a  wife 
Ys  never  loved  ! 

"  I  was  so  young — a  mere  child.  'N'  I  tried  so  hard, 
Julius!  As  I  growed  older  V  my  endurance  wore  out, 
I  tried  to  ketch  holt  o'  God  V  save  myself.  But  things 
was  more  'n  I  could  bear.  All  my  props  slipped  away 
from  me — I  hadn't  nothin'  left  to  cling  to,  not  even  my 
wish  to  be  good.  The  knife  was  in  my  hand  afore  I 
knowed,  'n'  I  had  struck  out  with  it — it  was  so  queer 
'bout  the  knife,  Julius.  'Feared  like  it  knowed  when 
things  was  heapin'  up  on  me  'n'  my  patience  was  givin' 
out,  fer  then  it  allus  showed  itself.  I  tried  to  break  it,  I 
hid  it,  I  throwed  it  away.  But  I  allus  knowed  where 
'twas,  'n'  if  I  didn't  go  'n'  fetch  it,  it  allus  come  back 
'thout  my  help.  It  'ud  put  itself  into  my  hand,  'n'  I'd 
find  myself  lookin'  at  it  'n'  feelin'  o'  it  'n'  wonderin'  how 
deep  I  could  make  it  go.  'N'  when  he  insulted  me  las' 
June,  when  he  called  me  vile  names,  it  leaped  into  my 
hands  afore  I  knowed  what  it  meant,  'n'  the  deed  was 
done  in  a  flash.  'N'  I — "  She  passed  her  hands  across 
her  eyes  with  a  sick,  reminiscent  weariness,  and  then  went 
on,  brokenly :  "  Sech  queer,  horrid  years  fer  a  woomarn 
to  pass  through — sech  everlastin'  years  o'  hatred  'n'  de- 


190 


spair!  Did  I  tell  ye  how  we  was  married?  Shall  I  tell 
ye  that  ?" 

"  Tell  me  whatever  ye  like,"  he  answered,  mournfully. 
He  was  helpless  before  the  destruction  she  was  causing  in 
his  own  soul. 

"I  never  loved  'im,"  she  continued,  as  if  talking  to 
herself.  "  I  never  did.  It  was  mother  't  fixed  the  hull 
thing  up.  If  father  'd  been  alive,  he'd  a-knowcd  better 
— though  they  wouldn't  a-been  no  need  o'  it  then.  But 
he'd  been  dead  fer  years.  He'd  been  a  boat-builder  down 
in  Maine,  V  he  come  to  lowy  when  the  country  was  new, 
V  he  took  up  claims  in  the  valley  V  proved  up  on 
'em  'n'  had  'em  fer  his  own.  'N'  when  he  died  mother 'n' 
me  was  alone  in  the  world,  fer  I  was  the  only  child.  We 
didn't  know  nothin'  'bout  managin'  a  farm,  neither  o'  us 
— mother  'd  been  brought  up  in  a  village  back  East,  'n' 
allus  had  a  spite  at  the  country,  anyway  ;  'n'  things  went 
wrong,  but  we  never  suffered  fer  nothin'.  We  had  the 
land,  'n'  we  was  allus  sure  o'  a  livin'  from  that. 

"  I  was  only  fifteen  when  Jasper  Madden  come  a-court- 
in'  me.  I  was  younger  'n  my  age,  too — I  hadn't  never 
been  anywhere,  except  now  'n'  then  fer  a  day's  trip  with 
father  to  Council  Bluffs,  'n'  wunst  I  went  to  Omaha  on 
the  cars.  I  hadn't  never  keered  fer  nobody  but  father 
'n'  mother.  If  I  ever  thort  o'  marryin',  it  was  to  put  it 
off,  like  the  Day  o'  Jedginent,  or  anything  't  I  wa'n't 
ready  fer.  'N'  when  Jasper  Madden  begun  comin'  to  see 
me,  it  skeered  me  at  fust  to  think  't  I  was  big  'nough  to 
make  a  full-grown  man  keer  fer  me.  I  hadn't  nothin' 
agin  'im,  'ceptin'  he  was  old.  I  smiled  to  myself,  but 
didn't  say  nothin'.  I  didn't  keer.  He  might  come  or 
go — it  was  all  the  same  to  me.  He  was  old — old  'nough 


191 


to  be  my  father.  I  didn't  want  to  marry,  but  I  hadn't 
nothin'  agin  'im.  I'd  rather  a-stayed  with  my  mother  'n 
marry  anybody  I'd  ever  seen. 

"But  the  farm  was  mortgaged  —  I  wonder  why 
they're  all  that  way  back  there  ? — 'n'  we  had  to  borrow 
money  fer  the  int'rest.  'N'  mother  says,  '  He  could  look 
arter  the  farm  along  o'  his  own,  'n'  mebbe  I  could  git  out 
o'  debt.  He's  a  master-hand  at  managin'.'  She  seemed 
worried  'n'  put  down.  I  could  onderstan'  'bout  the  debts, 
but  the  marryin'  was  a  myst'ry.  Only,  I  seen  if  I  done 
it,  mother  'd  be  easy.  'Sides,  I  hadn't  no  objections, 
'ceptin'  a  queer  feelin'  agin  it.  I'd  a-done  more  'n  that  to 
keep  mother  from  frettin'. 

" '  Jasper  Madden  loves  ye,'  my  mother  told  me.  I 
didn't  doubt  it,  if  he  wanted  to  marry  me.  '  He'll  make 
ye  a  good  husban','  says  she.  '  He's  clost,  but  he's  a  good 
pervider.  His  own  farm  's  kept  up  the  best  in  the  hull 
len'th  'n'  breadth  o'  the  valley.'  I  knovved  that,  'n'  I 
felt  a  sort  o'  pride  at  the  thort  o'  bein'  made  mistress  o' 
it.  I  was  so  young — I  didn't  know  what  it  all  meant. 
'N'  when  I  begun  to  talk  .sorter  fav'rable,  mother  seemed 
so  happy.  Then  I  said  to  myself  't  she  knowed  best — 
she'd  allus  decided  things  fer  me.  '  I'll  marry  'im,'  1 
says,  fin'ly,  '  if  he'll  let  ye  come  'n'  live  with  me.'  'N'  he 
promised,  'n'  the  weddin'-day  come. 

"  It  was  summer — June.  Everything  happens  in  June  ! 
My  husban'  kep'  'is  word  'bout  mother's  livin'  with  me — I 
sometimes  wondered  at  it,  afterwards.  But  I  reckon  he 
seen  where  his  int'rest  laid.  She  moved  all  our  things 
over — it  was  only  a  little  ways,  'n'  the  Madden  house  was 
big.  'N'  so  my  married  life  begun." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SHE  paused  a  little,  laying  her  right  hand  in  her  left, 
and  holding  it  hard  while  her  eyes  narrowed  with  a  look 
of  pained  introspection. 

"  He  was  so  cruel  to  me,  Julius !  I'd  took  my  mother's 
word  fer  it 't  he  keercd  fer  me  'n'  'ud  be  kind  to  me.  But 
he  wa'n't;  he  treated  me  badly  from  the  fust  day — like 
I  was  his  slave  'n'  he'd  bought  the  right  over  me.  His 
very  look  when  he  come  into  the  house  was  black  with 
blame;  he  was  allus  frownin',  like  I'd  been  tryin'  to  cross 
'im  in  some  o'  his  plans.  'N'  when  he  tole  me  o'  my 
faults — I  know  I  had  a  good  many,  fer  I  was  only  a  girl — 
he  made  out  like  they  was  monstrous  sins.  He  scared 
me — I  never  knowed  what  he  was  goin'  to  do.  I  useter 
hide  when  I  heerd  'im  comin',  but  I  allus  had  to  come  out. 
He  knowed  how  he  frightened  me,  too,  'n'  gloried  in  it. 
Many  a  time  he  glared  at  me  acrost  the  table  when  the 
vittles  didn't  suit  'im,  till  I  had  to  git  up  'n'  leave  so  's  not 
to  burst  out  cryin'  right  afore  'im.  I  tried  to  call  it  only 
his  way  'n'  not  to  take  it  to  heart.  I  tole  myself  he 
didn't  mean  nothin',  't  like  's  not  I  was  very  tryin'.  But 
I  couldn't  help  feelin'  it — I'd  a-been  a  stone  not  to  keer. 
He  found  fault  with  everything — my  way  o'  fryin'  eggs, 
my  way  o'  weedin'  the  garden,  my  way  o'  scrubbin'  the 
floor — the  very  way  I  wore  my  hair ;  'n'  when  I  tried  to 
do  things  in  other  ways,  he  only  found  fault  the  more. 
I  tried  to  please 'im — God  knows  I  did.  But  he  wouldn't 


see  no  good  in  the  things  I  done — it  was  all  wrong,  con- 
trary to  what  he  liked.  I  was  patient — no,  not  that;  I 
was  subdued  V  afeerd.  I  learned  to  watch  'ira,  wonderin' 
what  new  fault  he'd  find  in  me.  When  he  looked  at  me, 
my  heart  sunk  like  lead ;  V  when  he  come  near  me,  I 
shrunk  'n'  quivered,  fer  I  never  knowed  what  he  might 
do.  'N'  if  he  was  to  strike  me — oh,  I  felt  like  I  couldn't 
a-lived  arter  that ! 

"  He  didn't  strike  me — not  while  mother  lived.  He 
done  everything  short  o'  it,  though.  He  tortured  me  in  a 
thousan'  ways.  He  took  away  all  the  little  trinkets  I'd 
had  as  a  gal  'n'  took  pride  in — a  little  garnet  ring  't  father 
give  to  me  when  I  was  six  years  old — even  the  lace  pin 
o'  silver  't  father  bought  fer  mother  wunst  in  Council 
Bluffs,  'n'  't  she  give  me  arter  he  died.  What  he  done  with 
'em  I  dunno;  I  never  dared  to  ask.  I  reckon  he  sold  'em, 
though,  'n'  stored  the  money  away  along  o'  his  other  gains. 
I  learned  to  work  harder  'n'  harder.  I  was  strong  'n' 
could  stan'  it,  'n'  somehow  it  kep'  me  from  thinkin'.  Every- 
body about  'im  had  to  work.  He  was  allus  naggin'  the 
hired  men  to  do  extry  jobs  arter  their  day's  work  was 
over.  We  was  trained  to  his  own  use  fer  us  's  fast  'n'  shore 
's  what  his  own  heart  'n'  lungs  was  trained  to  the  habits  o' 
his  body. 

"  Mother  died  two  year  arter  I  was  married.  She'd 
been  ailin'  a  long  time.  I've  allus  b'lieved  she  was  un- 
happy o'  my  'count,  arter  she  seen  what  come  o'  all  'er 
urgin'.  But  I  never  complained  a  word  to 'er  — never 
wunst.  She  growed  thin  'n'  piney-like,  'n'  couldn't  eat 
My  husban'  watched  'er  on  the  sly.  I  knowed  what  he 
was  thinkin'  on,  even  if  I  didn't  dare  to  say  nothin'.  I'd 
learned  to  read  'is  thoughts  like  they  was  my  own. 


194 


'  When  the  ole  woomarn's  gone,'  he  was  thinkin',  '  the 
farm  '11  be  mine.  Nell  won't  dare  to  stan'  ont  agin  me.' 
The  farm  was  wuth  a  good  deal  now,  'n'  yieldin'  more  'n 
we'd  ever  counted  on. 

"  Mother's  las'  words  was,  '  I'm  sorry,  Nell !'  I  shall 
allus  'member  how  she  looked.  'N'  then  she  kep'  sayin' 
'  Sorry,  sorry,  sorry,'  over  'n'  over,  layin'  there  with  'er 
eyes  half  shet,  'n'  lookin'  like  she  was  out  o'  'er  head. 
Jasper  heerd  it,  'n'  kep'  lookin'  acrosst  at  me ;  but  I  didn't 
say  nothin'.  He  knowed  what  it  meant,  though,  's  well  's 
what  I  did. 

"  'N'  arter  the  f un'ral  the  will  was  read  'n'  the  farm  was 
mine  by  right.  I  was  skeered,  fer  I  knowed  I'd  have  a 
row  o'  some  sort.  All  I  was  afeerd  of  was  't  he'd  lose  'is 
temper  'n'  beat  me.  I  could  put  up  with  anything  but 
that. 

"'N'  the  very  night  arter  the  will  was  read  he  come  to 
me  'n'  says,  '  What  be  ye  goin'  to  do  with  the  farm  ? 
You  can't  run  it.'  He  stood  over  me,  lookin'  down  at  me 
till  I  had  to  turn  away.  '  No,'  says  I,  '  I  can't  run  it.' 
'Well,'  says  he,  'then  what's  the  use  o'  keepin'  it  in  yer 
name  ?'  '  Take  it,'  says  I,  '  I  don't  keer  fer  it.'  'N'  he 
smiled — it  was  'most  the  first  time  I'd  ever  seen  'im  smile. 
I  signed  some  papers — I  d'  know  what  they  was,  but  arter 
that  the  farm  was  his,  'n'  he  treated  me  wuss  'n  ever. 

"  I  done  the  work  o'  two  men  .on  them  farms.  I  kep' 
the  house  'thout  help  from  nobody.  I  mowed,  I  chopped 
wood,  I  ploughed  when  we  was  short  o'  help  out-doors.  He 
.watched  me  all  the  time,  findin'  fault.  We  made  money — 
I  know  that.  My  butter  was  in  demand  up  to  Council 
Bluffs — the  grocers  give  us  a  fancy  price  fer  it  fer  their 
richest  customers.  Jasper  took  the  money — I  never  had 


195 


the  handlin'  o'  a  dollar  o'  it.  Some  o'  it  was  in  gold,  hid 
under  a  brick  in  the  fireplace.  I  seen  'ira  hide  it  there, 
but  I  never  let  'im  know.  He'd  a-struck  me  fer  that,  I 
made  shore.  That  was  what  I  was  tryin'  to  keep  off, 
them  days.  I  was  willin'  to  make  a  nigger  o'  myself  if 
only  he  wouldn't  beat  me. 

"  It  was  a  hard  life,  Julius.  I'd  allus  b'lieved  in  God, 
like  young  folks  do  —  because  they're  told  to,  jes'  like 
they're  told  to  wash  their  faces  V  comb  their  hair.  But 
now  I  begun  to  doubt.  If  they  was  a  God,  how  could  He 
let  me  be  so  mis'able?  I  laid  awake  nights,  tryin'  to 
reason  it  out.  I  tell  ye,  changes  o'  b'lief  make  hard  pil- 
lows— I've  found  that  out.  From  faith  I  passed  to  doubt 
slowly — my  trust  faded  little  by  little,  like  day  fades  into 
night ;  'n'  from  doubt  I  was  whirled  back  to  trust  ag'in  in 
a  way  't  almos'  took  my  breath.  But  that  was  a  long 
time  arter. 

"  I  didn't  try  to  hold  out  agin  my  husban' — I  didn't 
dare.  I  growed  more  'n'  more  afeerd  o'  'im ;  I  knowed 
he'd  beat  me  if  I  give  'im  half  a  chance.  It's  easy  to  say 
what  I  orter  a-done^ — I  know  now  ;  but  if  I'd  a-run  away, 
like  I  thort  o'  doin'  time  'n'  ag'in,  I  made  shore  he'd 
ketch  me  'n'  bring  me  back.  I've  heerd  my  father  say 
how  it's  easy  fer  folks  't  never  smelt  salt  water  to  tell 
what  they  'd  do  if  they  was  in  a  shipwreck,  but  they  don't 
know  how  weak  they  be  till  the  waters  is  pourin'  over'  'em 
'n'  they  feel  theirselves  sinkin'  down,  down  into  the 
depths. 

"  He  took  delight  in  tormentin'  me,  in  keepin'  me  en- 
tirely by  myself,  A  neighbor  give  me  two  little  kittens,  a 
black  un  'n'  a  gray  un— innercent  little  things  't  scam- 
pered aroun'  V  sometimes  made  me  laugh.  If  I'd  a-showed 


196 


a  hatred  o'  'em,  he'd  a-kep'  'em  to  kill  off  the  mice  ;  but 
when  he  seen  I  loved  'em  'n'  was  sort  o'  half-way  happy 
with  'em,  he  threatened  to  kill  'em,  'cause  they  took  so 
much  milk.  He  said  I  fed  'em  cream,  'n'  't  the  butter 
was  fallin'  off  o'  that  account.  'N'  one  day  he  brained 
'em  with  a  hatchet  afore  my  face  'n'  eyes,  while  I  was 
pourin'  out  the  milk  for  'ern  in  the  broken  sasser  by  the 
wood-shed  door.  I  didn't  cry — I  didn't  say  a  word.  I 
took  'em  'n'  buried  'em  under  the  currant-bushes  by  the 
back  fence,  'n'  went  into  the  house  'n'  done  up  the  supper 
dishes.  '  Anyways,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  he  hasn't  struck  me 
yit',  but  I  knowed  in  my  heart  he  would — my  own  dread 
o'  it  was  assurance  'nough.  But  arter  he  killed  the  kittens, 
I  never  made  no  show  o'  keerin'  fer  nothin'.  I  waVt 
sure  I  did  keer  fer  nothin'.  My  heart  seemed  hard  'n'  cold 
— froze  up  like  a  lump  o'  ice.  But  I  worked  harder  'n 
ever.  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  give  'ira  a  chance  to  beat  me  fer 
laziness,  anyhow. 

"  One  day  he  went  to  The  Bluffs  fer  suthin',  'n'  left  me 
to  thin  out  the  beets  'n'  transplant  'em  into  a  new  bed.  I 
done  it  the  best  I  knowed  how — I  allus  done  my  work  the 
best  I  knowed  how,  I  was  so  feered  he'd  lift  his  hand  agin 
me.  This  was  some  time  arter  mother  died — it  seems  like 
a  thousan'  years,  when  I  look  back,  but  it  couldn't  a-been 
long.  I'd  growed  more  fearful  o'  'im  'n  ever;  the  bare 
sight  o'  'im  forced  the  blood  to  ray  heart  'n'  made  me 
tremble. 

"  Well,  when  he  come  back  from  The  Bluffs  he  went 
out  'n'  looked  at  my  work,  'n'  I  stood  at  the  bedroom 
winder,  peekin'  out.  I  seen  'im  bend  over  'n'  pull  up  two- 
three  beets  't  I'd  transplanted  'n1  look  at  the  roots.  Then 
he  flung  'em  down  'n'  started  fer  the  house.  When  he 


197 


turned  I  could  see  his  face,  'n'  then  I  knowed  what  was 
goin'  to  happen.  I  went  out  into  the  garden  myself — I 
felt  like  I'd  ruther  have  it  come  out  there.  I  was  cold ;  I 
felt  like  I  was  dissolvin'  drop  by  drop,  like  snow  afore  the 
sun. 

"  He  seen  me  'n'  come  straight  torrards  me.  '  It's  come 
— it's  come  at  last!'  I  said  to  myself,  'n'  my  thoughts 
made  a  queer  sound  in  my  head  like  rain  among  leaves. 
'  They're  put  in  too  dost  together,'  says  he.  '  'N'  the  roots 

is  as  crooked  as !'  I  didn't  say  a  word — I  knowed 

'twouldn't  do  no  good.  'N'  then — then  it  come,  jes'  's  I 
knowed  it  would  !  He  was  tired  with  his  long  ride,  'n'  his 
errands  hadn't  turned  out  well ;  'n'  he  struck  me  aside  the 
head  with  his  doubled  fist — it  was  on  this  side,  here — so  't 
my  jaws  knocked  together,  'n'  I  bit  a  big  hole  in  iny 
tongue.  I'd  a-tumbled  flat  if  it  hadn't  been  fer  the  fence 
near  me;  I  fell  back  agin  that,  'n'  somehow  stayed  there. 
By-'n'-by  I  spit  out  the  blood  'n'  went  back  into  the  house. 
I  sot  down  by  the  winder  'n'  looked  out.  It  was  'long  in 
the  arternoon.  The  children  had  been  let  loose  from  the 
school-house  a  quarter  o'  a  mile  east  o'  there,  'n'  was  run- 
nin'  down  the  road,  callin'  to  each  other.  A  man  went 
past  with  some  pack-animals,  drivin'  'em  torrards  the  river. 
That  was  all  I  seen.  They  was  a  great  darkness  over  every- 
thing. 

"  I'd  allus  made  shore  I'd  die  if  I  was  struck  like  that.( 
It's  queer  how  tough  us  human  critters  be  !  I  didn't  do 
nothin'  onusu'l.  I  kep'  on  livin'  'n'  workin'  jes'  the 
same.  I  had  supper  on  time  that  very  night,  'n'  the  hired 
men  never  knowed  no  dif'rence.  But  I  was  changed  in- 
side. From  that  hour  I  hated  that  man !  Afore  then  I 
was  only  afeerd  o'  'im,  but  now  1  hated  'n'  feared  'im 


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both.  At  fust  it  skeered  me  to  have  sech  feelin's — they 
was  new  to  me ;  'n'  I  laid  awake  at  night,  'n'  my  con- 
science kep'  watch  with  me  'n'  showed  me  horrid  glimpses 
o'  my  wickedness.  But  the  hatred  growed.  'N'  afore 
long  I  gloried  in  it — it  was  the  one  pleasure  I  had  't  he 
couldn't  take  away  from  me.  I  useter  look  at  'im  'n' 
think,  'I  hate  ye,  hate  ye,  hate  ye!  'N'  ye  can't  help 
yerself.  If  ye  was  to  flatten  me  under  a  board  'n'  crush 
the  breath  out  o'  me,  I'd  go  on  hatin'  ye  in  the  nex' 
world,  'n'  my  las'  thort  in  this  'ud  be  hate,  hate,  hate !'  It 
growed  'n'  growed,  'n'  I  was  glad.  It  was  my  wealth,  my 
comfort.  The  more  it  growed,  the  more  property  I  had  't 
he  never  could  touch  or  suspect.  I  felt  like  a  miser  over 
it.  In  time  I  had  horrid  visions  o'  what  my  hate  might 
do.  I  useter  think  straight  at  him  while  we  sot  at  table : 
4  If  ye  was  dyin','  I  said  to  'irn  in  my  thorts — '  if  ye  was 
dyin'  'n'  I  was  shore  ye'd  never  git  well  'n'  beat  me  fer  it, 
I'd  grab  yer  throat,  'n'  hang  on  'n'  shake  till  the  breath 
rattled  'n'  left  ye  !'  I  had  spells  o'  horror  at  my  own 
wickedness,  but  they  growed  fewer  'n'  fewer.  'T  wa'n't 
no  use  to  think  o'  runnin'  away.  I  knowed  he'd  find  me 
'n'  fetch  me  back,  'n'  make  my  life  harder  'n  ever. 

"  Arter  that  fust  blow,  it  come  easier  fer  'im  to  strike 
me.  I  looked  fer  it  whenever  anything  went  wrong.  I 
wa'n't  never  s'prised  to  see  'im  bearin'  down  on  me,  his 
eyes  blazin',  his  fist  raised  up.  I  growed  so  used  to  it 
't  I  didn't  even  cringe  when  I  seen  'im  comin'.  I  jes' 
stood  up  'n'  took  it,  'n'  then  went  on  with  whatever  I 
was  doin'.  But  I  hated  'im — my  God !  how  I  hated 
that  man !  I've  felt  my  hair  raise  at  sight  o'  'im,  not 
'cause  I  was  skeered,  but  'cause  a  loathin'  went  through  'n' 
through  me,  like  alectricity  'n'  thunder.  He'd  made  the 


world  a  hell  outside  o'  me — ray  heart  a  hell  inside.  He'd 
made  me  hate  the  ground  I  walked  on,  the  sky  above 
me — myself — God.  I  went  aroun'  quiet  enough,  but  they 
wa'n't  a  atom  in  my  hull  body  't  didn't  stir  'n'  cry  out 
whenever  I  set  eyes  on  'im. 

"One  day  I  picked  up  a  newspaper  'n'  read  'bout  a 
man's  cuttiu'  his  throat.  'I  kin  cut  my  throat,  too,'  I 
said  to  myself, '  if  I  ever  feel  like  I  can't  stan'  it  no  longer.' 
Then  I  thort  o'  other  ways — poison,  hangin',  drowndin'. 
Arter  that  I  felt  more  comf'table.  I  had  control  o'  things, 
arter  all.  Whenever  he  made  life  unbearable  fer  me,  I 
could  quit  it.  I  liked  the  idee  o'  the  river  best.  The 
Missoury  's  a  good  river  fer  that  kind  o'  thing — it  draws 
the  body  down  to  the  bottom,  holds  it  there,  'n'  lets  the 
sand  drift  over  it  till  it's  covered  up.  It's  a  rare  thing  't 
a  body  's  found  arter  the  Missoury  gits  a  holt  o'  it.  But 
the  river  was  quite  a  way  off,  'n'  I  wanted  suthin'  clost  to 
hand,  suthin'  I  could  depend  on ;  'n'  one  day  up  to  The 
Bluffs  I  bought  a  knife — not  a  butcher's  knife  exactly,  not 
so  big ;  but  suthin'  like  it.  It  had  a  smooth  handle  't 
jes'  fitted  my  hand.  I  hid  it  so  't  he'd  never  know ;  'n' 
when  I  was  mos'  mis'able,  when  my  body  was  black  'n' 
blue  with  the  blows  he'd  showered  on  me,  I  useter  steal 
off  by  myself  'n'  run  my  right  thumb  along  the  edge  o' 
the  blade  to  see  how  sharp  it  was.  'N'  the  touch  o'  it 
comf'ted  me  more  'n  any  livin'  friend  could  a-done. 

"  'N'  by-'n'-by  it  come  into  my  head  't  what  'ud  kill 
me  might  be  used  to  kill  'im,  too.  When  that  thort 
struck  me,  I  could  a-cried  fer  joy.  I  'member  the  time* 
well ;  I  was  gittin'  ready  fer  bed,  'n'  he  laid  there  with  'is 
face  torrards  the  candle-light,  fast  asleep.  Arter  the  thort 
come  to  me,  I  stood  lookin'  at  'im,  'n'  I  longed  to  do  the 


200 


deed.  Then  I  was  afeerd  he'd  open  'is  eyes  on  me  V 
read  my  thort,  so  I  turned  away  to  the  winder  V  stood 
there  sort  o'  breathless.  I  didn't  dare  to  turn  torrards  'im 
ag'in,  fer  fear  o'  what  I  might  do.  They  was  queer  sounds 
aroun'  the  house — ghostly  noises 't  orter  a-made  me  shiver. 
But  I  felt  uplifted  like — I  wanted  to  swing  my  arms  V 
cry  out.  How  'd  it  happen  't  I'd  never  thort  o'  killin'  'im 
afore?  'I  raus'  think  o'  suthin'  else/  I  said  to  myself. 
'  I  shall  do  it  now  if  T  let  my  thorts  run  on  it.'  I  tried  to 
fix  my  mind  on  what  I  seen  outside — the  tall  grass  wavin' 
in  the  wind,  the  new-ploughed  ridge  in  front  o'  the  house 
where  they  was  makin'  a  new  road-bed.  The  moon  was 
shinin'  over  the  big  flat  valley.  '  It's  the  lamp  't  lights 
the  world  to  bed,'  I  said,  tryin'  to  keep  my  thorts  fixed  on 
the  big  white  thing.  But  they  run  on  in  spite  o'  myself. 
'A  dark  night  'ud  be  a  better  time  fer  murder!'  Then  I 
drawed  the  curtain  down  clost  'n'  blowed  out  the  candle, 
V  shot  my  eyes  afore  I  reached  the  bed  'n'  crep'  in. 

"Them  days!  every  one  o'  'em  left  me  harder  'n' 
wickeder  'n  it  found  me.  'N'  they  stretched  out  into 
years.  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  Should 
I  kill  myself  'n'  end  the  bizness  that  way  ?  But  allus  I 
seemed  to  find  stren'th  to  bear  a  little  more,  'n'  so  the  day 
o'  reckonin'  was  put  off.  Or  should  I  kill  'im  fust  'n'  then 
myself?  I  put  off  decidin',  but  I  allus  knowed  I'd  have 
to  come  to  it  in  time.  I  liked  the  last  way  best — him 
fust,  'n'  me  arter.  I  could  do  it — I  had  the  knife.  That 
gave  me  an  advantage  over  'im  't  sometimes  almost  took 
my  breath.  '  His  soul  'ud  go  down,  down  to  burnin'  hell,' 
I  useter  think.  '  'N'  mine  'ud  foller  like  lead.  'N'  then 
— what  'ud  we  do  together  in  that  orfle  place  ?'  Some- 
times I  was  glad  o'  his  wickedness,  'n'  was  willin'  to  put  up 


201 


with  'is  abuse  fer  the  sake  o'  the  punishment  I  knowed 
he'd  git.  I  wa'n't  afeerd  myself;  I'd  suffered  too  much 
to  keer  fer  what  might  come  arterwards.  Besides,  hell 
wouldn't  be  hell  to  me  if  I  seen  'irn  sufferin'  like  he  de- 
served." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  MY  mind  run  so  much  on  death  't  everything  made 
me  think  o'  it.  Every  evenin'  made  a  picter  in  the  sky 
o'  the  end  o'  all  things.  In  the  mornin',  as  I  watched 
the  sun  rise,  my  thorts  'ud  go  back  to  mother,  V  I  was 
glad  't  the  sun  'nd  never  come  up  the  sky  fer  her  ag'in. 
When  the  mist  passed  away  from  the  Nebrasky  bluffs 
they  useter  remind  me  o'  gray,  dyin'  faces,  settlin'  into 
ghastly  death-lines.  I  could  see  white,  starin'  faces  like 
masks  in  the  sky ;  the  very  flowers  seemed  cal'lated  only 
to  grow  over  graves.  At  times  the  prairy  closed  in  aroun' 
me  like  high  green  walls,  V  I  felt  like  screamin'  out  V 
beatin'  at  it  with  my  hands.  The  very  sunshine  turned 
black  in  my  eyes  by  spells.  I  useter  wonder  if  I  was 
goin'  crazy,  'n'  I  hoped  I  was.  I  knowed  I  wouldn't 
sense  my  mis'ry  then. 

"At  night,  arter  my  work  was  done,  I  useter  wander 
aroun',  thinkin',  thinkin',  allus  thinkin'.  Sometimes  I 
puzzled  fer  days  over  a  word  or  a  idee  't  happened  to 
come  to  me  'n'  't  didn't  have  the  least  connection  with  me 
or  my  troubles.  I  'member  tryin'  fer  weeks,  it  seems  to 
me  now,  to  think  o'  what  father  useter  say  'bout  rich  peo- 
ple. Fin'ly  it  come  to  me  one  night  when  I  was  settin' 
by  the  river — '  Full  purses,  empty  heads.'  It  hadn't  a 
thing  to  do  with  my  own  dreadful  life,  but  I  started  back 
home,  light  'n'  joyful  's  if  I'd  found  a  world  o'  comfort. 
Wunst  I  crop'  up  under  the  meetin'-house  winder  on 


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prayer-meetin'  night  V  listened.  Parson  Barrows  was 
speakin'.  '  Why  should  we  know  our  feller-bein's?'  says 
he.  'To  know  ourselves.  Why  should  we  know  our- 
selves? To  know  God.'  I  laughed  out  loud  at  that. 
'  The  more  /  see  o'  my  feller-bein's,  the  more  I  know  o' 
the  devil.'  It  done  me  good  to  listen  V  mock  all  by  my- 
self. I  went  home,  laughin'  all  the  way. 

"But  one  eveniri' — shall  I  ever  fergit  that  evenin'? — I 
felt  like  I'd  go  wild  if  I  went  to  bed,  so  I  crop'  out  the 
back  door  into  the  garden  '  n'  wandered  aroun'  fer  a  long 
time.  I  felt  better  there — I  could  breathe,  'n'  they  wa'n't 
no  walls  to  stifle  me.  Fin'ly  the  garden  seemed  to  grow 
small  aroun'  me,  'n'  I  went  out  the  front  gate  'n'  stood 
in  the  road.  Everything  was  so  still — I  heerd  the  wind 
in  the  grass  like  a  rush  o'  blood  to  my  head.  I  mus' 
walk  about  or  die.  I  took  torrards  the  river  'n'  walked 
fast. 

"The  church  was  right  on  my  road.  When  I  got  near 
I  seen  lights  'n'  heerd  singin'.  Yes,  it  was  prayer-meet- 
in' night.  Fools!  did  they  think  they'd  found  God? 
I  went  on.  '  I  reckon  I'll  hear  some  more  o'  Parson  Bar- 
rows's  flowers  o'  rhetoric,'  I  thort.  '  Shall  I  creep  up  'n' 
listen  ?'  Las'  time  I  heerd  'im  he  was  talkin'  about  the 
sin  o'  lyin',  'n'  he  said  :  'A  lie  is  like  the  gold-inwoven 
robe  of  a  king ;  it  shines  resplendently,  but  it  clings 
heavily  to  its  wearer.'  He  was  a  young  man  jest  out  o' 
some  college.  Yes,  I'd  go  'n'  listen  ag'in.  It  'ud  give 
me  suthin'  to  laugh  at,  anyhow. 

"  I  was  clost  to  the  church  now.  The  singin'  had 
stopped.  Then  I  heerd  a  voice — not  Parson  Barrows's — 
a  voice  't  sent  queer  shivers  through  me.  Somehow  it 
dragged  me  torrards  it,  'n'  I  got  up  clost  to  the  winder 


204 


where  the  box-elders  made  a  thick  shadder.  There  I 
stood  with  both  hands  on  a  hitchin'-post  V  listened. 

"  The  voice  went  on.  '  It's  the  preacher  from  West 
Townshend,'  I  says  to  myself.  'I  heerd  'im  ask  the 
blessin'  at  last  year's  quarterly  meetin'.'  I  kep'  listenin'. 
I  didn't  look  at  'im,  though  I  could  a-seen  'im  easy.  Ole 
man  Pechin  was  settin'  jest  inside  the  winder.  He 
hadn't  but  one  eye,  'n'  that  was  on  the  preacher.  He  was 
listenin'  so  hard  't  he  was  fergittin'  to  say  '  Glory  be  to 
God!'  whenever  the  preacher  made  a  stop.  Sech  a  voice  ! 
D'ye  know  how  glycerine  feels  on  sore,  chapped  hands? 
His  voice  went  through  my  nerves  jes'  so,  calm  'n'  cool — 
I  could  a-listened  ferever.  Ole  man  Pechin  coughed,  'n' 
I  felt  mad  at  'im,  like  he'd  done  a  profane  thing.  I 
wanted  to  listen  'n'  listen  'n'  hear  nothin'  else — I  wanted 
to  fill  myself  with  that  good  sound.  It  went  through  'n' 
through  me,  heavy  'n'  sweet  'n'  tender — the  voice  o'  a 
big,  strong,  good  man.  I  took  it  in  like  a  sponge  takes 
water.  'N'  when  he  stopped  speakin'  'n'  they  begun 
singin'  ag'in,  I  turned  away  torrards  home.  I  didn't  want 
to  hear  nothin'  else  arter  that. 

"  I  walked  very  slow.  Suthin'  had  happened  to  me — 
I  couldn't  tell  what.  Only  I  felt  so  calm,  so  soothed — I 
seemed  to  be  leanin'  agin  suthin'  I  couldn't  see.  They 
wa'n't  a  evil  thort  in  my  mind  nowheres ;  my  head  felt 
empty  'n'  rested ;  it  was  like  I  was  beginnin'  a  new  life, 
'thout  mem'ry  or  regret.  The  moon  was  full ;  it  made 
the  valley  look  like  it  was  coated  with  frost.  They  was  a 
white  fog  along  the  river.  I  could  see  it,  layin'  's  still  's 
if  'twas  solid  'n'  had  been  piled  up  by  people.  Some  o' 
the  preacher's  words  come  back  to  me.  I'd  heerd  'n' 
'membered  'em  'thout  tryin'. 


205 


"  '  But  I  say  unto  you  that  ye  resist  not  evil ;  but  who- 
soever shall  smite  thee  on  the  right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the 
other  also.'  I  stopped  in  the  middle  o'  the  road.  '  Them 
ain't  his  words,'  I  said ;  '  they're  Christ's.  I've  heerd 
'em  afore.' 

"  Then  others  come  to  me — 'peared  like  they  was 
droppin'  down  on  me  like  the  starlight  from  the  upper 
air: 

" '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.' 

"  '  Them's  Christ's  words,  too,'  says  I,  stoppin'  ag'in. 
"  '  Where  do  they  come  from  ?  Is  He  near  me  ?'  The 
idee  frightened  me.  I  looked  aroun',  but  couldn't  see 
nothin'  but  the  tall  grass  'n'  some  bushes  here  'n'  there. 
I  looked  up.  There  was  the  moon,  big  'n1  white,  'n'  all 
over  the  sky  the  stars  pricked  through.  'N'  now  the 
words  moved  right  along :  '  Take  my  yoke  upon  you,  and 
learn  of  me ;  ...  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls. 
.  .  .  For  my  yoke  is  easy,  and  my  burden  is  light.' 

"  I  sot  down  beside  the  road,  holdin'  ray  head  in  my 
han's.  '  Rest  unto  my  soul,'  I  said,  tryin'  to  think  it  out. 
'  Is  it  true — is  it  true  ?  Why,  it  can't  be  —  it's  jes'  what 
I've  wanted  all  these  years.  Rest  unto  ray  soul  ?  No,  it's 
too  good  to  be  true.  'N'  yet — it  mus*  be !  Christ  said 
it — the  preacher  b'lieves  it.'  I  looked  up  at  the  stars — I 
knowed  now  how  'twas  when  the  mornin'  stars  sung  to- 
gether !  '  It's  all  true,'  they  seemed  to  say.  '  We  know 
— we've  seen  everything  from  the  beginnin'  o'  time.  It's 
true,  true,  true  !'  My  own  soul  give  a  sort  o'  shout  in  an- 
swer. '  True,  true  !'  That  word  ran  all  through  me,  all 
aroun'  me,  all  along  the  cloudless  sky.  I  held  my  breath 
'n'  listened.  Everything  seemed  alive  that  night.  The 


206 


wind  advised  me.  They  was  tender  sounds  in  the  grasses 
all  aroun'  me.  I  sot  still  'n'  listened,  jes'  like  I'd  done  to 
the  preacher's  voice. 

"  '  Ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls.' 

"  '  That's  what  I  want !'  I  cried  out.  '  Rest  unto  my 
soul — rest  't  '11  never  alter  in  spite  o'  blows  'n'  abuse. 
Rest,  rest !'  I  found  myself  on  my  knees,  gaspin'  out  the 
word.  '  Lord,  give  me  rest  unto  my  soul  !' 

"Then  I  begun  to  think  over  my  wickedness — the  evil 
't  had  been  in  my  mind  all  these  years.  'Rest?'  says  I. 
'How  kin  that  be?  I'm  lost — lost!  I'm  a  murderer  in 
rny  thorts.  I've  killed  that  man  a  hundred  times  with  my 
hate  o'  him.'  I  lived  over  my  married  life  in  a  flash — 
the  anger  'n'  loathin'  'n'  bitterness  't  had  destroyed  my 
soul.  God  had  give  me  a  conscience — planted  it  in  me 
like  the  tree  o'  the  knowledge  o'  good  'n'  evil  in  Eden, 
'n'  I. had  killed  it,  torn  it  up,  trampled  it  into  the  dirt,  'n' 
was  glad  to  be  red  o'  it.  I  hadn't  even  missed  it  now  fer 
years.  Surely,  it  wa'n't  fer  sech  as  me  to  find  rest.  I 
mus'  go  on  in  the  way  I'd  chosen.  I'd  made  my  bed,  'n' 
mus'  lay  on  it.  '  Fergivo,'  said  a  voice  somewheres  in  the 
air.  'Don't  think  bad,  revengeful  thorts  no  more;  give 
up  yerself  entirely — ^be  willin'.  to  be  nothin'  fer  Christ's 
sake.  My  yoke  is  easy — '  The  words  brought  a  sob 
into  my  throat.  '  Be  quiet,'  the  stars  advised.  '  Why 
worry  yerself,  why  keep  ole  wounds  from  healin'  ?  Lay 
all  yer  troubles  on  Christ — it  was  fer  sech  as  you  He 
died  !'  I  couldn't  make  it  out,  yet  'twas  's  plain  's  day 
that  it  was  true.  What !  Christ  died  fer  me — a  wuth- 
less  sinner,  a  murderer  ten  times  over  ?  Fer  me,  't  life 
had  took  so  much  more  from  'n  it  had  ever  give  back? 
Fer  me,  naked  'n'  forlorn — swep'  clean  o'  all  good  's  a 


207 


thrashing-floor  arter  the  grain  's  all  been  took  away  ? 
Me,  carryin'  nothin'  to  Him  but  this  load  o'  sin  V 
shame?  'Only  come,'  says  the  voice.  'That  load  is  a 
precious  thing  in  Christ's  sight.  Lay  it  all  at  His  feet — 
He  lived  'n'  died  to  ease  mankind  o'  sech  burdens.  He 
will  perfect  ycr  life.  He  will  give  ye  power  to  overcome 
evil.  Trust,  only  trust,  'n'  leave  the  rest  to  Him  !' 

" '  I  will !'  I  said,  kneelin'  beside  the  road  'n'  givin'  up 
altogether.  '  Only  come,  Lord  Christ,  only  give  me  the 
peace  ye  promise,  V  I'll  try  my  bes'  to  do  Thy  will !'  I 
seemed  to  be  growin'  light  'n'  happy.  'Be  I  dyin' ?'  I 
wondered.  'Thank  God— thank  God!'  I  fell  forrards 
on  the  grass  'n'  laid  there,  I  d'  know  how  long.  When 
I  come  to  the  moon  had  gone  down,  but  I  knowcd  'thout 
lookin'  up  't  the  stars  was  shinin'.  I  could  see  'em  layin' 
at  rest  on  the  still  pool  at  my  feet.  I  got  up  'n'  went 
home  on  wings.  'Jasper  kin  do  his  wust  now,'  I  said  out 
loud  as  I  run.  '  I've  found  One  't  kin  help  me — One  't  '11 
take  my  part !' 

"  Arter  that  I  begun  life  over.  Nothin'  troubled  me — 
nothin'  put  me  out.  Troubles  dropped  into  my  great  joy, 
'n'  it  closed  over  'ern  'n'  never  left  a  trace.  I  seen  God  in 
everything.  The  sunshine  on  the  tall  grass  'minded  me 
o'  what  I'd  heerd  father  say  'bout  the  mornin's  bright- 
ness on  the  sea.  It  was  so  beautiful !  'N'  when  the  rain 
varnished  the  dull  green  leaves,  'n'  the  sun  come  out  'n' 
flashed  acrosst  'em — I  felt  like  I  was  a  dweller  in  the  New 
Jerusalem  !  The  very  flowers — the  jimson-weed  'n'  the 
sunflowers  'n'  the  milk-weed — as  they  drooped  on  their 
stalks  all  day,  seemed  thankin'  God  fer  a  life  so  sweet. 
They  was  moods  in  everything.  In  the  mornin'  the  hull 
world  shook  with  the  laughter  o'  the  sun ;  'n'  when  the 


208 


cvenin'  come  up  from  behind  the  Nebrasky  bluffs,  all  Nater 
seemed  to  fold  'er  hands  V  shet  'er  eyes  V  say,  '  Now  I 
lay  me  down  to  sleep.'  The  tears  useter  come  into  my 
eyes  when  I  thort  how  near  V  good  God  was. 

"I  seen  everything  in  a  new  light.  A  ole  man  in  the 
neighborhood  died  —  a  bad,  unrepentant  ole  man.  His 
life  flickered  fer  days,  V  fin'ly  went  out  in  a  stench.  I 
'member  how  full  o'  pity  my  heart  was  fer  'im  ;  I  knelt 
time  V  ag'in  V  prayed  God  to  have  mercy  on  his  soul. 
I  felt — I  knowed  't  Christ  had  took  my  sins  off  o'  rne,  but 
it  had  growed  so  clear  to  me  't  the  germs  o'  all  good  'n' 
evil  lay  in  us,  like  seeds  in  the  ground,  only  waitin'  their 
chance  to  spring  up  'n'  bring  forth  fruit,  each  accordin' 
to  its  kind.  'N'  though  I  knowed  my  sins  was  fergiven 
me,  I  compared  myself  with  Christ,  not  with  my  neighbors ; 
'n'  that  kep'  me  from  growin'  lifted  up  'n'  overbearin'. 

"  I  couldn't  go  to  church — it  'ud  displease  my  husban'. 
'No  matter,'  says  I  to  myself,  'God  is  everywhere.  He's 
here  in  this  room  this  very  minute.  Why  should  I  want 
to  go  to  church  to  find  Him  ?'  So  I  made  a  little  service 
o'  my  own  't  I  could  say  over  'n'  over  while  I  worked.  My 
religion  was  my  abundant  comfort — a  pure  stream  flowin' 
out  from  God's  throne  'n'  bearin'  His  voice  to  me.  I  was 
filled  with  a  great,  meltin'  love — a  love  't  was  bigger  'n 
I  was,  'n'  overflowed  onto  everything  aroun'  me.  I  pit- 
ied my  husban' ;  it  was  dreadful  't  he  should  be  shet  off 
'm  all  't  was  makin'  me  so  happy,  wrapped  up  in  hisself, 
deef  to  the  faintest  reachin'  voice  o'  good.  I  even  loved 
'im  for  a  while.  Fer  wa'n't  he,  too,  a  child  o'  God  1  Be- 
sides, I  owed  'im  a  debt — if  he  hadn't  treated  me  so  bad, 
I'd  never  a-found  the  peace  't  had  come  to  me.  'N'  so  I 
seen  't  they  was  a  good  side  even  to  evil. 


"  He  wa'n't  no  kinder  to  me,  but  I  didn't  mind  it  now. 
I  didn't  want  to  die ;  I  wanted  to  live  V  do  the  Lord's 
will  on  airth.  I  was  happy,  happy ;  I  didn't  feel  the 
ground  under  me,  I  was  so  light ;  I'd  reached  the  land  o' 
Ceulah  'thout  the  pain  o'  passin'  through  the  valley  o'  the 
shadder.  I  bore  the  blows  'thout  feelin'  'em — or  Christ 
bore  'em  fer  me.  It  was  my  trial,  'n'  I  b'lieved  'twas  a 
means  o'  grace.  It  was  easy  'nough,  with  Christ  allus  at 
hand.  Often,  when  the  blows  fell  thick  'n'  fast,  I  felt 
sorter  lifted  out  o'  myself — my  soul  above  my  body,  joy- 
ful 'n'  serene.  '  More — more  !'  I  could  a-cried  when  he 
struck  me.  '  Let  me  bear  more,  to  show  how  strong  Christ 
has  made  me  !'  I  was  in  love  with  sufferin' ;  I  could  a-died 
every  hour  in  the  day  'n'  not  cried  out  wunst.  I'd  fergot 
my  plans  o'  suicide  'n'  murder;  I  'membered  Christ  only, 
who  is  life  'n'  love.  I'd  hid  the  knife  away  somers  afore 
that  night  when  I  got  religion,  'n'  I  hadn't  thort  o'  it  sence. 
I'd  fergot  entirely  where  'twas.  I  useter  doubt  if  'twas  me 
't  had  planned  them  wicked  things.  It  was  'bout  this  time 
I  read  in  a  newspaper  how  a  drunken  murderer  was  ketchcd 
in  the  act,  'n'  how  he  drivelled  'n'  jabbered  o'  his  crime.  I 
might  a-been  like  that  if  the  grace  o'  God  hadn't  saved  me. 

"Time  went  on.  I  felt  settled,  sure  o'  myself.  My 
life  laid  all  plain  afore  me — like  ye've  seen  a  field  out- 
lined with  a  long  furrow  afore  it's  ploughed.  I  found 
comfort  in  everything.  I'd  ketch  hold  o'  a  little  word 
soraers,  in  suthin'  I'd  heerd  or  read,  'n'  go  aroun'  sayin' 
it  over  'n'  over,  'n'  feelin'  so  happy  'bout  it.  I  'member 
wunst  I  found  a  little  poem  in  a  newspaper,  'n'  two  lines 
stuck  in  my  thorts  fer  days.  They  was: 

'All  are  needed  by  each  one; 
Nothin1  is  good  'n'  fair  alone.' 


210 


It  was  a  hull  sermon  to  me.  It  put  my  own  wish  outside 
o'  me,  in  black  V  white,  to  fill  my  life  with  good  works 
V  prove 't  I  was  needed  by  others. 

"  But  ye  kin  see  how  it  'ud  come  out.  I  couldn't  keop 
up  to  the  level  o'  that  fust  joy.  How  could  I  ?  'Tain't 
in  nater  to  be  on  airth  V  in  heaven  all  to  wunst,  'n'  that's 
the  way  I'd  been  livin'.  Suthin'  in  me  weakened  —  it 
wa'n't  my  faith,  that  was  's  strong  's  ever.  Mebbe  my 
nerves  sorter  give  out — a  woornarn's  sometimes  does.  I 
sunk  back  slow — not  to  where  I  had  been  ;  no,  I  never 
could  a-done  that,  arter  the  way  I  fust  come  into  the 
kingdom.  My  faith  was  's  firm  's  a  rock ;  I  loved  God 
more  'n'  more  —  but  it  wa'n't  new  no  longer.  'N'  not 
bein'  new,  it  didn't  take  up  all  my  mind,  'n'  I  had  time 
to  think  o'  my  mis'ries  ag'in.  'N'  my  life  was  so  dread- 
ful !  I  begun  to  feel  the  blows  jes'  like  I  useter  do.  I 
brooded  over  'em — I  seen  myself  wuss  treated  'n  other 
wimmin.  The  ole  hate  stirred  in  me — I  felt  it  'n'  prayed 
agin  it  like  a  mad  woomarn.  I  couldn't  b'lieve  the  Lord 
'ud  pick  me  up  out  o'  the  mire  'n'  then  drop  me  back 
ag'in.  '  Don't  let  me  go,'  I  kep'  prayin'.  '  Christ,  Christ, 
don't  let  me  go  !' 

"  I  found  the  knife  one  day  arter  he'd  been  beatin'  me. 
I  'member  how  I  looked  at  it'n'  wondered  if  I  ever  could 
git  red  o'  it.  'N'  a  voice  inside  me  seemed  to  say,  '  Git 
red  o'  yer  own  wicked  heart,  'n'  the  knife  won't  do  no 
harm.'  I  put  it  away  ag'in,  but  every  wunst  in  a  while 
I'd  stop  my  work  'n  go  'n'  look  at  it.  Day  arter  day  I'd 
go  'n'  look  at  it,  'n'  turn  away  weaker  'n  when  I  come. 
One  day  I  made  up  my  mind  to  settle  the  matter,  wunst 
fer  all.  '  This  or  Christ?'  I  thort,  as  I  held  it  in  my  hand. 
But  I  couldn't  decide.  I  chose  atween  the  two  time  'n' 


211 


ag'in,  but  I  allus  had  it  to  do  over.  The  knife  follered  me 
like  the  Spirit  itself.  The  truth  was,  I  wanted  the  knife 
'n'  Christ  too.  'N'  when  I  seen  I  couldn't  have  'em  both, 

I  half  wished  I'd  never  found  the  Master's  way  so  't  I  might 
be  left  to  foller  my  own.    I  looked  into  the  Bible  wunst  to 
see  whether  the  Lord  was  still  with  me.    'N'  there  I  read : 
'  Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go  ;  'n'  where  thou  lodgest,  I 
will  lodge.'     It  made  me  mad  then  to  see  how  the  Lord 
was  bent  on  henderin'  me.     He  had  got  a  holt  o'  me,  'n' 
wouldn't  let  me  go. 

"  One  day  I  took  the  knife  'n'  went  down  to  the  crick 
in  the  prairy  back  o'  the  house,  intendin'  to  throw  it  in. 

I 1  choose  Christ  wunst  for  all,'  I  says  on  the  way.     'This 
time  settles  it.'     The  cricks  is  dif'rent  in  lowy  from  what 
they  be  out  here — slow,  black,  coilin'  things,  slippin'  along 
atween  steep  cut-off  banks.     When  ye  come  to  one  onex- 
pected,  ye  feel  like  ye'd  run  acrosst  a  snake  in  the  grass. 
I  stopped  on  the  bank  and  cal'lated,  the  knife  in  my 
hand. 

"  '  What's  the  use  o'  throw  in'  it  in  ?'  says  I.  '  If  I  should 
want  to  use  it — if  I  should  have  to  use  it — '  It  'ud  be  a 
fearful  thing  to  need  the  knife  'n'  know  I'd  flung  it  away  ! 
So  I  buried  it  three  paces  from  a  live-oak  down  there — I 
counted  so  't  I  needn't  make  a  mistake  when  I  wanted  to 
dig  it  up.  'N'  inside  o'  a  week  ray  hate  got  the  better  o' 
me  ag'in,  'n'  I  brought  it  up  to  the  house  'n'  felt  like  I'd 
found  a  ole  friend  wunst  more." 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

"  I  GROWED  more  V  more  impatient  o'  bavin'  my  will 
curbed  that  way.  I  was  bound  band  'n'  foot — I  was  the 
slave  o'  this  power  I'd  ast  to  keep  me  from  sin.  If  God 
'ud  only  fergit  me  fer  a  minute  'n'  let  me  have  my  way ! 
They  was  times  when  every  nerve  o'  my  body  tingled  to 
do  the  deed,  but  a  power  stronger  'n  what  I  was  held  me 
back  I  resisted  God,  I  fought  Him.  But  what's  the  use  o' 
tryin'  to  measure  our  stren'th  with  His  ?  I  reckon  I  must 
a-sorter  lost  my  mind,  fer  I  took  to  prayin'  't  He'd  leave 
me  to  do  as  I  liked.  I  prayed  'n'  prayed,  knowin'  all  the 
time  He  wouldn't  listen  to  that  prayer.  '  Let  me  kill  'im,' 
I  promised  on  my  knees,  '  'n'  then  I'll  be  good  ferever !' 
'N'  I  watched  fer  the  minute  when  the  Lord  'ud  leave  me 
to  myself,  'n'  I  kep'  the  knife  with  me  all  the  time. 

"  Well,  a  year  ago  or  more  my  busban'  hired  Eeuben 
Goodell  to  work  on  the  farm.  He's  the  man  ye  call  Tom 
Taylor  out  here.  Then  things  got  wuss  'n  ever,  if  that 
could  be,  fer  Goodell  was  mixed  up  with  'em.  I  didn't 
like  'im  from  the  fust,  though  I  couldn't  tell  why.  When 
he  spoke  to  me  alone,  I  allus  felt  like  Eve  must  when  the 
serpent  up  'n'  talked  to  'er.  He  hadn't  been  there  a  week 
till  he  seen  how  matters  was  atween  my  husban'  'n'  me,  'n' 
then  he  begun  to  make  up  to  me.  Fust  he  hung  aroun' 
'thout  sayin'  nothin',  but  keepin'  his  eyes  on  me  in  sech  a 
queer  way.  He  had  the  eyes  o'  the  devil — they  widened 
'n'  closed  with  secb  a  sly,  watchful  look.  He  made  me 


213 


little  presents,  he  follered  me  'bout  my  work,  he  done  er- 
rands fer  me.  I  wa'n't  easy  'bout  it,  but  I  couldn't  tell 
what  was  wrong.  Bein'  a  married  woomarn,  I  never  thort 
o'  his  reel  meanin'.  'N'  when  I  did  notice,  I  made  shore  I 
was  mistook.  It  couldn't  be  true — V  me  a  married  woom- 
arn !  So  I  didn't  say  nothin' — I'd  got  trouble  'nough'thout 
borrerin'  none.  But  Jasper  seen.  He  was  the  fust  one  't 
reely  opened  my  eyes.  He  kep'  comin'  on  us  onexpected. 
I  'lowed  'twas  queer — but  it  might  be  accident.  But  when 
I  seen  'im  peekin'  at  us  'round  corners,  'n'  through  cracks 
V  knot-holes,  I  made  shore  suthin'  mus'  bp  wrong.  Then 
I  tried  to  fight  Goodell  off,  but  he  seen  how  feerd  o'  my 
husban'  I  was  'n'  knowed  I  wouldn't  dare  to  complain,  so 
he  growed  'bolder  'n'  bolder.  He  made  motions  towards 
me  afore  my  husban's  eyes,  like  they  was  a  understan'in' 
atween  us.  One  day  he  grabbed  me  by  the  wrists  'n'  held 
me  tight,  'n'  made  me  listen  to  'im — I  shudder  now  to 
think  o'  his  words  'n'  my  helplessness;  'n'  jes'  then  my 
husban'  come  from  behind  the  shed  where  he'd  been 
watchin'.  He  made  shore  I'd  'lowed  Goodell  to  hold  my 
hands,  'n'  I  don't  wonder.  'N'  arter  that  it  did  seem  like 
the  devil  'd  been  let  loose  in  that  valley. 

"  I  wanted  Goodell  to  leave,  but  he'd  signed  a  agree- 
ment fer  a  year  'n'  wouldn't  go.  It  did  seem  like  God 
had  fersaken  me,  but  He  hadn't,  fer  my  husban'  was  still 
alive.  'N'  so  the  winter  passed  —  sech  a  long,  dreadful 
winter.  They  was  big  winds — no  end  o'  'em ;  V  many's 
the  day  I've  stood  at  the  winder  watchin'  the  heightcnin' 
clouds  on  the  Nebrasky  bluffs,  'n'  listenin'  to  the  bellerin' 
o'  the  savage  storms,  'n'  hoped  't  the  house  'ud  blow  away 
with  all  o'  us  in  it.  Outside,  the  wind,  the  storm,  the  bitter 
snow  ;  inside,  the  passions  V  hatreds  o'  a  pack  o'  demons. 


214 


"  The  winter  passed,  V  the  spring.  It  was  June — las' 
June.  It  seemed  better  in  the  warm  weather,  fer'I  could 
git  out-doors  'n'  walk  aroun'.  But 'twas  bad  'nough  even 
then.  I  felt  like  I  was  hemmed  in  on  all  sides,  I  never 
knowed  what  was  afore  me.  It  was  like  bein'  in  a  tunnel 
— ye  'member  the  one  ye  took  me  in  wunst,  down  to 
Rothschild's? — everything  was  dark;  I  kep'  runnin'  up 
agin  things  't  bruised  me.  'N'  still  the  Lord's  hand  was 
on  me  V  I  couldn't  have  ray  way. 

"  Then  one  day  Reuben  Goodell  ast  me  to  run  away 
with  'im.  Run  away  with  'im !  I'd  's  soon  think  o' 
runnin'  away  with  Beelzebub  hisself.  I  stood  fer  a  min- 
ute 'thout  the  stren'th  to  speak — I  could  a-died  o'  shame 
'n'  anger.  'N'  while  I  was  tryin'  to  find  my  voice,  Jasper 
comes  in  out  o'  the  cellar-way,  where  he'd  been  hidin'  'n' 
listenin'.  He  twitted  me  with  consentin'.  If  the  knife 
'd  been  in  my  hand  at  that  minute,  I'd  a-used  it — I  know 
God  'ud  a-let  me !  But  I  turned  'n'  run,  'n'  left  the  two 
men  together. 

"  They  had  a  orfle  quar'l.  I  d'  know  what  was  said  ; 
I  went  into  the  farther  bedroom,  'n'  shet  all  the  doors  be- 
hind me  so  't  I  couldn't  hear.  'N'  when  they  come  in  to 
supper  they  looked  like  they  was  ready  to  jump  at  each 
other's  throats,  'n'  Goodell  whispered  to  me  when  my 
husban'  couldn't  hear, '  I'll  be  even  with  'im  yit !' 

"  That  night  Jasper  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  seven 
devils.  He  raced  up  'n'  down  the  house  like  a  crazy  man, 
'n'  he  ended  by  beatin'  me  till  my  shoulders  was  raw  in 
spots.  I  fell  down  acrosst  a  chair  'n'  laid  there  till  he 
tired  hisself  out — it  makes  me  sick  now  to  think  o'  that 
dreadful  time.  When  he'd  gone  I  didn't  seem  to  sense 
nothin'  fer  ever  so  long — I  laid  there  like  a  weed  't  's  been 


215 


pulled  up  V  thrown  down  to  die.  But  I  didn't  die — tbe 
life  in  me  wouldn't  go  out.  When  I  come  to,  the  room 
was  dark  W  cold,  the  stars  was  shinin'  outside,  V  the 
wind  stirred  sof  ly  amongst  the  woodbine  't  covered  the 
winder.  At  fust  I  couldn't  make  out  what  had  happened. 
I  laid  starin'  hard  at  the  stars.  Their  light  hurt  my  eyes 
like  's  if  I'd  rubbed  ray  finger  acrosst  my  eyeballs,  but  I 
stared  on  'n'  didn't  flinch.  I  wanted  to  suffer  more — 
more  'n  I  could  bear,  fer  then  the  Lord  might  let  me  have 
my  way. 

"Fin'ly  I  tried  to  git  up,  but  couldn't.  I  was  stiff 
'n'  lame ;  when  I  tried  to  raise  my  arms,  they  growed 
numb  'n'  felt  's  big  's  stove-pipes ;  little  bubbles  o'  cold 
water  seemed  to  be  risin'  in  long  lines  through  all  my 
nerves.  But  by-'n'-by  I  got  on  to  my  knees  'n'  prayed. 

'"Lord,  Lord,'  I  said, '  let  me  kill  Mm— let  me  kill  'im. 
Don't  hender  me  no  longer.  I've  borne  enough  !' 

"  I  fell  asleep  on  the  floor,  'n'  woke  up  time'n'ag'in  re- 
peatin'  that  prayer.  I  laid  there  all  night,  cold  's  death, 
ceptin'  where  them  bruises  burned  rny  shoulders.  In  the 
mornin'  I  got  up  'n'  built  the  fire  'n'  cooked  the  break- 
fas'.  I  didn't  show  I  was  lame  'ceptin'  by  stumbliu'  a 
little. 

"  That  very  day  I  tried  to  kill  'im  ;  I  sharpened  the 
knife  on  the  ole  grindstone  in  the  woodshed  'n'  hid  be- 
hind the  door,  meanin'  to  spring  out  on  'im  when  he  come 
in.  But  the  Lord's  eye  was  on  me;  I  couldn't  stir,  'n'  my 
husban'  went  past  me  'n'  into  the  other  room.  That 
night  I  put  the  knife  under  my  pillow,  sure  't  I  could  find 
stren'th  to  use  it  afore  mornin'.  But  a  voice  was  allns  in 
my  ear,  even  while  I  was  dreamin' ;  it  warned  me  back, 
it  took  all  the  life  from  my  body.  When  the  nex'  morn- 


216 


in'  come  I  says  to  myself,  '  The  Lord  is  agin  me !  I  won't 
struggle  no  longer.  But  what  be  I  stayin'  'ere  to  suffer 
fer?  I'll  leave — I'll  run  away,  V  if  he  brings  me  back, 
things  can't  be  wuss  'n  what  they  be  now.' 

"  After  breakfas'  I  went  to  the  stove  in  the  fireplace  'n' 
took  out  what  money  I  reckoned  I'd  need.  'If  I  kin  git 
into  the  mountains,  I  kin  hide  there,'  I  thort.  'N'  the 
tex'  come  into  my  mind, 'I  will  turn  mine  eyes  unto  the 
mountains  whence  cometh  my  help.'  '  Yes,'  says  I,  '  if  I 
kin  only  git  to  the  mountains,  I'll  be  safe — he  kin  never 
track  me  through  them  canons  'n'  over  the  rocks.'  I  done 
up  a  bundle  o'  clo'es  'n'  laid  it  on  the  table.  'I'll  go  's 
soon  's  he's  safe  out  to  the  other  farm,'  says  I.  '  He  won't 
be  back  till  one,  or  arter.'  'N'  as  I  laid  the  bundle  down 
I  noticed  the  knife  was  there,  too.  How  it  got  there  I  d' 
know.  I  couldn't  'member  o'  techin'  it.  'N'  then,  afore 
I  fairly  knowed  it,  a  dreadful  thing  happened. 

"My  husban'  'n'  Reuben  Goodell  come  in.  I  heerd  'em 
outside,  their  voices  raised  high  in  anger.  Jasper  come  in 
fust.  He  was  white  's  death — that  orfle,  sickenin'  white 
't  comes  into  faces  't  mos'ly  has  plenty  o'  color.  His 
neck  was  gray,  like  a  dead  man's.  He  stumbled  at  the 
threshold  'n'  come  near  fallin'.  Reuben  Goodell  was  closst 
behind. 

"  Jasper  stopped,  'n'  looked  fust  at  me  'n'  then  at  the 
bundle. 

" '  So,'  says  he, '  ye  was  gittin'  yer  things  together  to 
leave  with  him,  was  ye  ?'  I  'spected  he'd  strike  me,  but  he 
didn't — he  was  too  mad  to  think  o'  it.  But  he  called  me 
a  vile  name — a  name  't  set  my  brain  o'  fire.  I  was  look- 
in'  away  from  'im  when  he  said  it — I  didn't  know  at  what 
till  arterwards,  but  at  suthin'  't  held  my  eye.  The  blood 


217 


was  beatin'  in  my  temples  like  it  would  burst  through. 
'Well,  what  d'  ye  say  to  it?'  he  yelled.  'Ye  can't  deny 
it !'  Then  he  called  me  that  dreadful  name  wunst  more. 

"  My  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  Still  I  didn't  look  at  'irn. 
'N'  all  to  wunst  I  seen  what  was  holdin'  my  eye.  It  was 
the  knife !  A  ray  o'  sunshine  lay  acrosst  it,  bright  'n' 
cold  'n'  beautiful.  I  seemed  to  stiffen  'n'  grow  hard. 
'  I've  borne  enough,'  suthin'  said  inside  o'  me.  '  The 
Lord  says  it — I've  borne  enough  !'  Suthin'  loosened  'n' 
growed  big  in  me ;  I  felt  like  I  was  flyin'  out  on  the  wind. 

"  '  What  do  I  say  ?' 

"  It  was  my  voice  a-screamin',  'n'  arter  a  minute  I  reco'- 
nized  it.  Then  it  screamed  ag'in. 

"  '  This— 'n'  this !' 

"  My  pulses  was  beatin'  like  gun-shots.  I  had  the  knife 
in  my  hand — I  felt  the  handle,  I  seen  the  blade  flash.  I 
dashed  at  'im — I  thrust  'n'  thrust  at  'im — I  was  blind — 
my  God !  how  I  gloried  in  my  freedom,  my  stren'th !  I 
couldn't  see  'im — I  didn't  feel  the  blade  touch  'im ;  I 
wouldn't  a-felt  it  if  he'd  been  made  o'  iron.  Then  all  to 
wunst  a  great  whirlin'  darkness  seized  me ;  I  knowed  the 
knife  wa'n't  in  my  hand — 'n'  then  the  light  broke  in  'n' 
I  seen  'im  stretched  acrosst  the  table  with  the  blood  oozin' 
out  at  every  heart-beat. 

"  Somehow  I  got  away  'n'  come  'ere.  Afore  I  got  to 
Council  Bluffs  I  can't  'member  nothin'  but  how  the  tall 
prairy  grass  cut  my  hands,  'n'  how  I  dropped  down  in  it 
time  'n'  ag'in  to  rest,  more  dead  'n  alive.  They'd  been  a 
long  drought,  but  it  had  rained  a  little  the  night  afore, 'n' 
the  grass  was  all  blistered  with  the  dust.  'N'  that's  all  I 
know." 

11  or  voice  died  out  in  a  low  murmur.     She  sat  leaning 


218 


forward,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fastened 
upon  the  floor.  She  had  told  it  all  now — and  knew  what 
to  expect.  Would  Julius's  condemnation  manifest  itself 
in  stinging  speech  or  only  in  silence  ?  She  listened  like 
a  prisoner  at  the  bar. 

The  room  was  silent  for  a  little  space.  Julius  stared 
at  her,  breathing  hard.  His  face  worked  strangely.  And 
as  he  gazed  his  eyes  became  suffused  and  tender;  he  drew 
his  hand  across  them  hastily.  Then  he  arose,  and  went 
to  her  and  knelt  down. 

"My  poor  girl !"  he  murmured,  in  a  broken  voice.  It 
was  all  he  could  say  just  then. 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  a  shocked  surprise. 

"Then  ye  don't  hate  me?" 

"  I  love  ye  !"  was  his  only  answer. 

Her  surprised  look  became  wistful. 

"  Ye  didn't  understan',  then  ?     The  thing  I  done — " 

"O,  I  do  understan' — better  'n  ye  do  yerself,  dear.  I 
understan'  ye're  a  martyr  in  the  sight  o'  God — but  there  1 
we  won't  talk  'bout  it  no  more.  Why,  what  o'  the  past? 
It's  gone — what's  the  use  o'  tryin'  to  make  it  present? 
I'll  make  ye  so  happy  't  ye  can't  help  fergittin'  it.  Fer- 
git  it  now — from  this  minute  on ;  live  only  in  yer  love 
fer  me — 'n'  mine  fer  you.  'N'  when  the  spring  comes, 
when  the  snow  melts,  V  the  roads  is  so  't  we  kin  travel — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  questioning  look. 

"  Why,  then,"  he  went  on,  answering  the  look  with  a 
loving  smile,  "  we'll  go  down  to  Donhaly  City  'n'  be  mar- 
ried, 'n'  live  happy  ever  arter  !  Don't  say  a  word — I  won't 
listen."  He  arose  and  kissed  her,  holding  her  hands 
firmly  and  tenderly.  "  It's  all  settled — nothin'  't  ye  could 
say  agin  it  'ud  make  a  bit  o'  dif'rence.  'N'  so — good- 


219 


night !"  He  paused  at  the  door  and  looked  back  at  her. 
"  Sleep  well — good-night !" 

As  he  passed  through  the  kitchen  his  mother  beckoned 
him  to  her  side. 

"I  heerd  it  all,"  she  said,  with  the  utmost  frankness. 
"  I  shoved  back  agin  the  partition  a-purpose.  Well !  I 
ain't  'shamed  o'  it.  It's  the  fault  o'  this  everlastin'  ole 
house — anybody  kin  hear  through  sech  walls.  Be  yc 
reely  goin'  to  marry  'er — arter  that?" 

"  I  reely  be." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  he  was  in  doubt  as  to  what 
was  coming. 

"  I've  allus  said  ye  was  pure  Robinson,"  she  declared, 
lifting  her  head,  and  pointing  her  withered  chin  at  him. 
"  But  I  never  made  shore  o'  it  till  now.  Julius,  I'm 
proud  o'  ye !  G'long  to  bed !" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THERE  is  little  to  notice  in  a  Rocky  Mountain  winter 
after  the  first  snow-fall  and  the  first  week  of  fair  weather. 
Even  the  storms,  those  "  friends  of  death,"  whose  terrors 
might  be  expected  to  display  a  reasonable  admixture  of 
caprice,  become  all  alike  after  experience  has  had  a  chance 
at  them — wild  uprisings  of  wind  and  cloud,  harsh  fric- 
tions of  heaven  and  earth,  in  which  the  snow  is  rubbed 
loose  and  sent  flying  abroad  like  white  sand.  One  gets 
stamped  with  the  oft- repeated,  dazzling  white  days  which 
shade  off  imperceptibly  into  gray  twilights  and  end  in 
stupendous  nights  of  ultramarine  and  silver  ;  it  is  sickening 
to  watch  the  moon  go  up  and  down  the  sky  night  after 
night,  filling  up  her  horn  and  pouring  the  light  back  upon 
the  shadow-haunted  earth.  There  is  something  murderous 
in  the  look  of  a  clear  day;  it  suggests  steel  and  a  disposi- 
tion to  use  it.  The  wind  carries  a  dagger  and  leaps  bandit- 
like  upon  the  traveller.  The  peaks  flash  in  the  sun  like  rows 
of  upright  knife-blades.  But  there  is  a  monotony  even  in 
threat,  and  one  grows  derisive  of  the  actual  achievements 
of  death.  The  same  duties,  perils,  and  discomforts  at 
morning,  noon,  and  night;  the  same  sense  of  overwrought 
arms  and  legs,  and  vacuity  where  the  mind  ought  to  be. 
After  the  first  homesickness,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 
make  a  personal  demonstration  of  the  scientific  truth  that 
the  two  main  cavities  of  the  human  trunk — the  brain  cav- 
ity and  the  stomach  cavity — are  closely  connected,  and 


221 


that  the  latter  grows  at  the  expense  of  the  former.  While 
this  demonstration  is  going  on  one  is  reasonably  comforta- 
ble, but  the  antecedent  state  is  a  dreadful  thing.  Home- 
sickness?— an  orgy  of  it.  The  outgrown  Eastern  hamlet 
comes  back  with  actualities  softened,  angles  rounded.  The 
village  worthies,  those  demigods  of  one's  childhood,  are  no 
longer  alluded  to  with  sarcasm  as  great  only  by  the  little- 
ness of  the  average  villager.  One  remembers  them  ten- 
derly in  the  poetic  generalization  that  home-keeping  hearts 
are  they  that  rule  the  world.  And  the  belated  Browning 
Society  —  "  Daughters  of  Browning,"  the  parson's  wife 
had  christened  it — the  church  socials,  the  lawn  festivals, 
all  the  mild  dissipations  regulated  by  a  religious  commu- 
nity as  a  safe  compromise  between  an  impossible  heavenly 
innocence  and  an  irrepressible  state  of  youthful  frivolity, 
play  queer  pranks  with  one's  heart-strings  in  the  remem- 
brance. Yes,  homesick.  What  of  it?  The  gods  them- 
selves had  their  favorite  spots  of  earth.  And  the  sweet 
blond  girl,  with  the  waxen  complexion  and  heart  ditto 
for  its  impressibility — the  one  whose  wedding-cards  came 
crashing  into  one's  consciousness  like  a  cannonade —  But 
stop  !  that  way  madness  lies. 

The  genius  who,  for  five  months  at  a  stretch,  can  take 
pleasure  in  staring  at  Nature  frozen  up  and  laid  out  in 
white  under  a  blue  tent  is  a  mental  voluptuary,  who  can 
lay  claim  to  something  more  broadly  symbolic  than  the 
olive  wreath  of  specific  success ;  he  should  bear  the  palm- 
branch  of  universal  triumph.  Men  long  since  out  of  their 
mental  swaddling-clothes — presenting  to  their  own  inner 
eye  a  tangled  luxuriance  of  thick-growing  thoughts,  com- 
pared with  which  Shakespeare's  intellectual  achievements 
are  a  mere  weedy  common — have  emerged  from  a  Colo- 


222 


rado  winter  as  barren  of  ideas  as  if  they  had  never  sinned. 
The  splendid  monotony  of  the  mountains  becomes  un- 
bearable. One  longs  for  a  splash  of  color  on  the  foot- 
hills, in  the  sunset,  in  one's  own  life.  But  the  days  drop 
out,  one  after  another,  as  alike  as  peas  from  the  pod. 
Nature  takes  to  lines  and  angles;  she  neglects  form, color, 
shadow ;  she  attempts  nothing  that  cannot  be  dashed  off 
in  charcoal.  The  snow  banks  up  the  four  horizons  to  the 
very  walls  of  heaven,  sending  upward  a  flash  which  reveals 
nothing  of  the  sky's  deep  mystery.  The  silence  drowns 
one;  it  is  a  submerging  sea,  breaking  all  around  in  great 
billows.  Impossible  to  get  an  echo ;  the  rocks  are  padded, 
and  absorb  sound  like  feather  cushions ;  the  silence  seizes 
the  voice  in  the  throat  and  stifles  it.  The  lowing  of  the 
cattle  might  be  a  rumbling  of  diseased  auditory  nerves. 
Material  things  which  in  summer  were  all  in  all,  fade  into 
groups  of  pale  images  which  go  wandering  aimlessly  down 
the  path  of  memory.  The  world  loses  its  hold ;  the  mind 
is  not  on  speaking  terms  with  facts.  It  retires  inward, 
and,  finding  nothing,  rattles  about  in  the  place  where  its 
thoughts  used  to  be. 

"Time  hath  a  quiver  full  of  purposes 
That  miss  not  of  their  aim," 

says  Lowell.  And  the  aims  are  always  kindly,  though  va- 
rious as  human  needs  and  desires.  A  little  trust  while  the 
arrow  is  on  the  wing,  a  little  effort  to  keep  in  its  way,  and 
the  present  necessity  shall  be  hope's  future  precedent  and 
sanction,  and  "  that  which  was  ecstasy  shall  become  daily 
bread." 

The  winter  months  wrought  important  changes  in  the 


condition  of  affairs  on  Cloud  Mountain.  First  and  fore- 
most, Emma  Webster  consented  to  become  Julius's  wife. 
At  first  she  would  not  listen  when  he  talked  of  marriage. 
In  her  actual  observation  she  had  seen  something  of  the 
results  of  ill  -  considered  love  -  matches,  and  hearsav  had 
made  reliable  additions  to  her  stock  of  knowledge.  Her 
love  contained  too  little  of  impulse  to  permit  her  to  lose 
the  effect  of  all  the  wise  lessons  of  the  past.  She  was 
convinced  that  Julius  would  hate  her  when  the  first  gla- 
mour was  over,  and  he  woke  up  to  the  real  meaning  of 
being  bound  for  life  to  a  criminal.  It  was  useless  for  him 
to  reverse  the  case,  and  show  what  she  would  do  were  he 
the  guilty  one  and  she  innocent.  She  would  not  listen ; 
she  had  strength  enough  to  save  him  from  himself,  and 
she  would  do  it. 

And  yet,  in  time,  Julius  triumphed.  The  man  himself, 
and  not  his  arguments,  was  the  cause  of  this.  The  close 
companionship  of  the  long  winter  months  brought  into 
clearer  vision  many  points  in  his  character  of  whose  qual- 
ity she  had  previously  been  in  doubt.  As  she  realized 
more  and  more  the  fundamental  strength  of  his  nature, 
the  stability  of  his  purposes,  the  generosity  of  his  judg- 
ments, his  love  took  on  the  aspect  of  an  obligation  from 
which  she  could  not  escape.  She  no  longer  feared  the 
stern  reprobation  of  his  regret.  He  would  never  repent  of 
his  union  with  her — that  fact  was  as  clear  as  if  she  had 
already  lived  her  life  through  in  proof  of  it.  His  persist- 
ence was  something  more  than  the  restlessness  of  passion  ; 
it  was  the  urgency  of  a  supreme,  all-abiding  love,  demand- 
ing consideration  and  fulfilment  as  a  right,  and  promising 
the  large  return  of  perfect  loyalty.  Should  she  hold  out 
against  him,  what  then  ?  One  might  attain  to  the  glory 


224 


of  self-sacrifice  where  two  might  be  happy — a  distinction 
happily  won,  maybe,  but  more  happily  lost.  It  became 
plain  that  this  sacrifice  was  neither  necessary  nor  reason- 
able. No  word  of  reproach  would  ever  escape  his  lips  for 
the  deed  she  had  done.  Her  own  conscience  would  al- 
ways deal  more  roughly  with  her  than  he.  She  could 
trust  him  utterly.  The  assurance  came  to  her  slowly  but 
completely.  The  dull  doubts  which  had  clung  to  her  like 
burrs  dropped  off,  and  she  moved  with  the  freedom  of  ab- 
solute trust.  Her  vain  questionings  gave  place  to  rever- 
ence and  joy,  and  his  claim  to  her  love  and  service  became 
as  obvious  as  a  crown. 

"  I'll  marry  ye,  Julius,"  she  consented  at  last.  Her  face 
was  serious  and  glad.  "  Because  I  love  ye,"  she  added, 
"V  I  know  we'll  be  better  V  happier  together." 

And  from  that  day  she  had  no  regrets.  She  had  set- 
tled the  matter  sanely,  the  dupe  neither  of  Julius's  love  nor 
her  own  supersensitiveness.  She  had  decided  neither  as 
romanticist  nor  fatalist,  but  as  a  healthy  human  being  ex- 
ercising the  power  of  common-sense. 

"  Reuben  Goodell  '11  let  that  quar'l  drop,"  she  told  her- 
self, "  'n'  Julius,  too — he's  promised  me.  Reuben's  had 
all  the  winter  to  think  it  over — he'll  let  it  drop." 

The  winter  passed,  and  it  was  earliest  spring.  The  snow 
was  melting;  there  was  renewal  and  revival  in  the  chill, 
light  air.  Abiathar  came  over  as  soon  as  the  road  would 
permit.  He  was  healthy  and  happy,  and  reported  the 
family  at  Barb  Wire  Ranch  as  "  s'lubrious." 

"  'N'  how  d'  ye  git  along  with  Cynthy  1"  questioned  his 
mother,  descending  sharply  to  details. 

Abiathar  cocked  his  eye  at  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  flinging  his  whole  body  forward 


with  a  movement  of  expansive  enthusiasm,  "  Cynthy's — 
well,  say,  Cynthy's  jes' — great  /" 

"  Oh,  I  knowed  that,"  was  the  ambiguous  retort. 

He  had  much  to  tell  of  a  broncho  he  had  just  been 
breaking,  and  of  his  newly  acquired  skill  at  "  ropin'  'em 
in" — almost  equal  to  Julius's.  In  the  midst  of  this  out- 
pouring a  shadow  moved  across  the  window,  and  every- 
body turned  at  the  dull  sound  of  horse's  hoofs  on  the 
snow  outside.  Emma  Webster  saw  a  man  dismounting 
and  fastening  his  horse  to  the  wood-pile.  An  awful  fear 
struck  into  her. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  questioned  the  old  woman. 

"  I  can't  make  shore,  but  it  looks  like  —  Tom  Taylor." 

Before  they  could  get  to  the  door  and  open  it  a  man's 
voice  called  out : 

"  Hello  in  there  !    Anybody  to  home  ?" 

"  Lots  o'  us !"  was  Mr.  Irish's  cheerful  answer. 

The  voice  was  not  Tom  Taylor's,  thank  God ! 

Mr.  Irish  brought  in  the  stranger,  and  introduced  him 
as  Amos  Bradshaw  from  Baumgardener's.  Emma  Web- 
ster had  never  heard  of  the  man  before. 

Mr.  Irish  would  have  been  delighted  to  meet  his  dear- 
est foe  in  heaven  after  the  lonely  winter  through  which 
he  had  passed. 

"  Well,  how's  everything  ?"  he  cried,  with  a  geniality 
almost  Southern  in  its  effusiveness.  "Roads  was  purty 
tough,  wa'n't  they  ?  How  'd  ye  manage  to  git  through 
Butler's  Gulch  V  lower  down  where  the  bridges  is  gone?" 

"  Swum  where  I  couldn't  wade.  I'd  trust  Ginger  to 
take  me  to  McGinty  if  swimmin'  'ud  do  it.  Ye  'member 
Ginger  ?" 

"  I  should  ruther  say !      I  sold  'im  to  Baumgardener 


myself  three  year  ago  last  oat  harvest.  Baumgardeners 
all  alive  ?" 

A  strange  look  came  into  Bradshaw's  face. 

"  Yes — Baumgardeners  is  all  alive." 

"  Then  who's  dead  ?" 

"  I  didn't  say  nobody  was,  did  I  ?" 

"  No,  but  ye  looked  it." 

"  Looks  is  powerful  deceiving  pardner,  powerful  deceiv- 
in'.  But  that  ain't  what  I  come  to  say.  It's  'bout  a  man 
ye  know — Tom  Taylor." 

Emma's  heart  stopped  beating.  Julius's  eyes  met  hers, 
then  passed  on  to  the  stranger. 

"  So  he  sent  you  to  see  me  ?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

"  No.     He's  dead." 

There  was  silence  in  the  little  room. 

"Dead!"  Old  Mrs.  Irish  drew  a  long  breath  and  sat 
bolt- upright. 

"  Fer  the  love  o'  Moses !"  put  in  Abiathar,  "  what  '11 
Cynthy  say  ?  When  ?  How  ?" 

Bradshaw  regarded  them  all  with  the  smile  of  advan- 
tage which  is  inseparable  from  a  man  who  has  something 
important  to  tell. 

"  It  was  three  weeks  arter  he  struck  the  place,  las'  fall. 
He  was  out 'in  a  storm  up  Shiverin'  Mesa  —  Baumgar- 
dener  sent  'im  fer  a  couple  o'  steers  't  had  strayed  off  tor- 
rards  the  south.  Shiverin'  Mesa  ain't  fur,  but  it  might 
's  well  be  a  hundred  mile  if  a  man's  ketched  up  there  in  a 
snow-storm  'n'  don't  know  the  lan'marks.  Well,  arter 
the  storm  come  up,  we  was  'feerd  he  might  lose  'is  way, 
him  bein'  a  stranger  in  them  parts,  so  Tim  Foster  'n'  me, 
we  sot  out  to  find  'im.  Well,  we  did  find  'im  —  under  a 
ledge  o'  rock  jest  above  the  Devil's  Heel.  He  was  layin' 


there  with  'is  blanket  round  'ira.  His  boss  was  tied  to  a 
pinon,  chilled  through.  We  got  hira  V  the  boss  home — 
a  tough  job,  too,  I  kin  tell  ye,  with  the  snow  fallin'  till 
we  couldn't  see  three  feet  ahead  o'  us — 'n'  fer  a  long  time 
we  made  shore  the  man  was  dead.  I  dunno  how  many 
hours  we  worked  over  'im.  It  'ud  make  ye  sick  if  I  was 
to  tell  ye  wbat  happened  to  his  ears  'n'  nose  when  they 
thawed  out.  But  fin'ly  he  did  come  to,  though  he  was 
the  wuss  froze-up  critter  I  ever  sot  eyes  on,  'n'  I've  seen 
some  tough  cases,  too. 

"Well,  we  all  knowed  he'd  got  to  die,  'n'  so  M  he.  He 
could  speak  a  little,  but  he  couldn't  see  nor  turn  'is  head. 
Bymeby  he  ast  me  p'in't-blank  if  his  time  'd  come  to  go 
over ;  'n'  I  tole  'im  the  truth,  jes  's  straight  's  he  ast  fer 
it.  If  I'd  been  in  'is  place  I'd  a-\vanted  it  jes'  so.  A  man 
couldn't  do  wuss  by  me — 'n'  I've  allus  said  it — 'n'  to  let 
me  wink  out  all  to  wunst,  yanked  into  the  nex'  world 
afore  I  had  a  chance  to  let  go  my  grip  on  this. 

"  Arter  I  tole  'im,  he  laid  still  fer  a  little  while.  I 
reckoned  he'd  gone  to  sleep;  but  purty  soon  I  seen  'im 
tryin'  to  speak,  'n'  I  bent  over  to  ketch  the  words. 

" '  Git  a  pen  'n'  ink  'n'  paper,'  says  he. 

"  I  got  'em  'n'  sot  down  by  the  bed,  clost  up,  fer  I  seen 
'twas  suthin'  purty  ser'ous.  I  had  to  listen  sharp  fer 
what  he  said,  but  I  got  it,  word  fer  word.  They  was  five 
witnesses  in  the  house,  'n'  we  all  signed  that  paper.  Here 
'tis  —  I  reckon  it  b'longo  to  yow,"  he  said,  handing  it  to 
Emma.  "  He  made  'is  own  mark — there,  see  it?  I  held 
the  pen  in  'is  hand  'n'  guided  it — I  felt  like  I  was  holdin' 
the  fingers  on  at  the  same  time.  He  died  that  night.  I 
dunno  's  the  Lord  '11  fergive  the  critter  'n'  make  a  pet  o 
'im  in  glory — I  don't  reckon  He  will,  mos'  likely — but  I 


228 


know  /  couldn't  hold  out  agin  'im  when  I  heerd  'im  keep 
sayin'  over  V  over  to  hisself, '  Lord,  Lord,  have  mercy  on 
my  soul !' " 

Julius  and  Emma  stood  by  the  window  and  read  the 
paper  together.  It  was  a  confession  of  the  murder  of 
one  Jasper  Madden,  on  a  specified  day  of  the  preceding 
June,  by  Reuben  Goodell,  otherwise  known  as  Tom  Tay- 
lor, who  had  been  incited  thereto  by  circumstances  which 
it  was  unnecessary  to  detail.  The  deed  had  been  com- 
mitted under  conditions  which  had  caused  the  wife  of  the 
said  Jasper  Madden  to  appear  guilty,  even  in  her  own 
eyes.  She  had  the  knife  in  her  hand  and  was  trying  to 
strike  ;  but  he  (Reuben  Goodell),  seeing  that  she  was  com- 
pletely unconscious  of  her  own  actions,  that  she  tottered  and 
was  about  to  fall,  seized  the  knife,  and  delivered  the  blow 
himself.  The  wife  regained  consciousness  after  a  moment, 
and  believing  herself  to  be  the  criminal — in  which  decep- 
tion he  encouraged  her — fled  the  country,  and  was  now 
living  at  Cloud  Mountain  Ranch  under  the  name  of  Emma 
Webster.  This  confession  was  made  in  the  hope  of  right- 
ing a  great  wrong,  and  also  of  placing  his  own  soul  on  a 
better  footing  in  the  life  to  come. 

Emma  Webster  finished  reading  and  looked  at  Julius 
with  a  white,  glorified  face.  Neither  spoke.  It  was  as  if 
they  had  both  been  brought,  in  one  supreme  moment, 
into  direct  contact  with  the  infinite  goodness  of  God. 

On  one  of  those  spring  mornings  when  the  deep,  rest- 
ful sleep  of  things  during  the  night  awakens  them  early 
to  new  energies  of  growth,  and  when  men,  in  spite  of 
fheniselves,  become  poets  and  fall  a-dreaming  of  hopes  as 
yet  unborn  in  their  own  souls,  a  wagon,  containing  a  man 


229 


and  a  woman,  clattered  along  the  road  leading  from  Cloud 
Mountain  to  Donhala  City.  To  the  physical  eye  the 
wagon  was  drawn  by  two  sturdy  mountain  horses,  but 
one  gifted  with  an  inward  vision  would  have  seen  that  it 
was  hitched  to  a  star  in  the  precise  Emersonian  sense,  and 
moved  in  obedience  to  that  Power  which  animates  the 
world  through  the  needs  and  aspirations  of  men.  For 
no  closer  connection  ever  existed  between  heaven  and 
earth  than  in  the  bond  of  an  honest  human  love ;  and  this 
man  and  woman,  on  the  way  to  their  own  wedding,  un- 
consciously exemplified  that  unity  of  good  throughout 
the  universe  whereby  the  guess  of  the  Sophists  becomes 
a  fact,  and  man  is  recognized  as  the  measure  of  all  things 
— even  of  the  Infinite. 

"  I  b'lieve  in  God — now,"  old  Mrs.  Irish  had  confessed, 
with  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  as  she  watched  the  wagon 
disappear  down  the  road.  "  In  Emmy's  God,"  she  added, 
as  if  formulating  her  faith  for  the  future. 

Her  husband  lighted  his  pipe  and  sat  down  by  the  fire- 
place for  a  quiet  smoke. 

"  We'll  allus  have  her  biscuits  now,"  he  said,  more  to 
himself  than  to  her.  He,  too,  had  his  idea  of  the  creative 
goodness,  and  this  was  his  expression  of  it. 

Julius  drove  slowly.  Why  not?  He  possessed  that 
blessed  leisure  which  hopeful  people  always  have.  There 
was  something  supremely  triumphant  in  this  journey  with 
Emma  beside  him — 

"The  breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendence  hovering  over  him." 

He  had  reached  the  summit  of  his  earthly  ambition.  The 
world  was  under  his  tutelage,  the  future  waited  in  kindly 
submission  for  his  commands. 


"God  made  the  day  a- purpose  fer  us,  Julius."  Era- 
ma's  eyes  rested  upon  his  with  a  quiet  joy.  "  I  knowed 
how  it  'ud  be — I  ast  Him." 

"  Ye  ast  Him  ?" 

"  Yes — to  tell  me  the  day  I  orter  set  for  my  wedd'in'. 
I  looked  in  the  Bible,  'n'  He  tole  me  there.  Oh,  I  know," 
she  added,  with  gentle  haste — "  I  know  ye  think  I  ortn't 
to  put  no  more  faith  in  that  sorter  thing  arter  the  leadin'  I 
made  shore  I  had  the  night  when  I  found  Reuben  Goodell 
in  the  cabin.  But  it  was  a  leadin',  Julius.  I've  thort  it 
all  out  sence  then.  If  I  hadn't  follered  what  it  tole  me, 
Reuben  Goodell  wouldn't  a -gone  to  Baumgardener's,  'n' 
then  we'd  never  a-knowed  the  truth  about  that  crime.  'N' 
then — " 

"  'N'  then  we  couldn't  a-been  quite  happy,  nohow,  could 
we  ?"  finished  Julius. 

They  were  both  serious,  but  smiling.  Julius  put  his 
arm  around  her  in  silence.  In  her  faith,  as  in  all  things, 
she  was  infinitely  beyond  him ;  and  he  was  content  to 
have  it  so. 


BY  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER 


TRILBY.     A  Novel.     Illustrated  by  the  Author.     Post 

8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental. 

It  is  a  charming  story  told  with  exquisite  grace  and  tenderness. — 
A".  Y.  Tribune. 

"  Trilby  "  is  the  best  fiction  of  the  older  school  that  the  magazines 
have  permitted  the  public  to  enjoy  for  a  long  while.— N.  Y.Evening  Post. 

Proves  Du  Maurier  to  have  as  great  power  as  George  Meredith  in 
describing  the  anomalies  and  romances  of  modern  English  life;  while 
his  style  is  far  more  clear  and  simple,  and  his  gift  of  illustration  adds 
what  few  authors  can  afford.  Thackeray  had  this  artistic  skill  in  some 
degree,  but  not  to  compare  with  Du  Maurier. — Springfield  Republican, 

"Trilby "is  so  thoroughly  human,  so  free  from  morbidness  and 
the  disposition  to  touch  the  unclean  thing  that  it  atones  for  a  multi- 
tude of  sins  in  contemporaneous  fiction. ...  In  giving  this  wholesome, 
fascinating  history  to  the  world  the  artist-author  has  done  a  favor  to 
novel  readers  which  they  cannot  well  repay  nor  fitly  express.— Indian- 
apolis Journal. 

PETER  IBBETSON.  With  an  Introduction  by  hia 
Cousin,  Lady  *****("  Madge  Pluuket  ")•  Edited 
and  illustrated  by  GEORGE  DU  MAUIUER.  Post  8vo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

Mr.  Du  Maurier  deserves  the  gratitude  of  all  who  come  across  his 
book,  both  for  the  pleasant  and  tender  fancies  in  which  it  abounds 
and  for  its  fourscore  dainty  sketches — Athenceum,  London. 

There  are  no  suggestions  of  mediocrity.  The  pathos  is  true,  the 
irony  delicate,  the  satire  severe  when  its  subject  is  unworthy,  the  com- 
edy sparkling,  and  the  tragedy,  as  we  have  said,  inevitable.  One  or 
two  more  such  books,  and  the  fame  of  the  artist  would  be  dim  beside 
that  of  the  novelist — iV.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

The  personal  characterization  is  particularly  strong,  the  pictures 
of  Paris  are  wonderfully  graphic,  and  the  tale  will  induce  many  of  its 
readers  to  attempt  Du  Maurier's  receipt  for  "dreaming  true."— Phil- 
adelphia Ledger. 

Novelty  of  subject  and  of  treatment,  literary  interest,  pictorial 
skill— the  reader  must  be  fastidious  whom  none  of  these  can  allure — 
Chicago  Tribune. 

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BY  EICHAED   HAKDING  DAVIS 


THE  EXILES,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.  Illustrated. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

These  varying  but  uniformly  characteristic  tales  show  the  travelled 
man,  they  show  the  observing  man,  and  they  show  the  natural  and 
well-trained  story-teller;  but  the  principal  value  of  them  lies  not  so 
much  in  any  of  these  things  as  in  the  evidence  the  stories  bear  to  a 
thoughtful  mind,  alert  for  impressions,  but  never  content  to  receive 
impressions  without  trying  to  analyze  causes. — Interior,  Chicago. 

OUR  ENGLISH  COUSINS.  Illustrated.  Post  Svo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

Admirable  examples  of  genuine  observation  recorded  with  the  light 
find  quick,  yet  firm,  clear  touch  of  a  literary  artist  in  whom  the  good- 
humor  and  the  enthusiasm  of  healthy  American,  youth  are  still  un- 
dimmed. — Philadelphia  Times. 

THE  RULERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN.  Illus- 
trated. Post  Svo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

A  very  clever  and  entertaining  book  of  travels.  .  .  .  Mr.  Davis  has 
combined  history,  geography,  and  romance  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave 
no  dull  or  stupid  line  or  passage  iu  his  book.— San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

THE  WEST  FROM  A  CAR-WINDOW.  Illustrated  by 
FREDERIC  REMINGTON.  Post  Svo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 
$1  25. 

There  is  not  a  dull  line  iu  the  book,  and  the  United  States  soldier, 
commissioned  and  enlisted,  and  the  American  Indian  alike,  have  cause 
to  be  grateful  for  the  fate  that  drew  them  into  the  line  of  vision  of  such 
a  delineator.  His  occasional  chapters  give  a  truer  view  of  both  classes 
than  half  a  dozen  "military"  romances.—  Sation,  N.  Y. 

VAN  BIBBER,  AND  OTHERS.  Illustrated.  Post  Svo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00. 

Mr.  Davis  is  one  of  a  considerable  group  of  Americans  who  throw 
off  short  stories  so  full  of  life  and  significance  that  they  often  seem  to 
tell  us  more  of  the  social  conditions  they  describe,  within  ten  or  twelve 
pages,  than  our  own  novelists  can  compress  into  a  volume. — Spectator^ 
London. 

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K.  D.  BLACKMOKE'S  NOVELS. 


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Told  with  delicate  and  delightful  art  Its  pictures  of  rural  Eng- 
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charming  company  in  charming  surroundings.  Its  pathos,  its  humor, 
and  its  array  of  natural  incidents  are  all  satisfying.  One  must  feel 
thankful  for  so  fluished  and  exquisite  a  story.  .  .  .  Not  often  do  we 
find  a  more  impressive  piece  of  work.— N.  Y.  Sun. 

A  new  novel  from  the  pen  of  R.  D.  Blackmore  is  as  great  a  treat  to 
the  fastidious  and  discriminating  novel-reader  as  a  new  and  rare  dish 
is  to  an  epicure.  .  .  .  A  story  to  be  lingered  over  with  delight.—  Boston 
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His  descriptions  are  wonderfully  vivid  and  natural.  His  pages 
are  brightened  everywhere  with  great  humor ;  the  quaint,  dry  turns  of 
thought  remind  you  occasionally  of  Fielding. — London  Times. 

His  tales,  all  of  them,  are  pre-eminently  meritorious.  They  are 
remarkable  for  their  careful  elaboration,  the  conscientious  finish  of 
their  workmanship,  their  affluence  of  striking  dramatic  and  narrative 
incident,  their  close  observation  and  general  interpretation  of  nature, 
their  profusion  of  picturesque  description,  and  their  quiet  and  sus- 
tained humor.— Christian  Intelligencer,  N.  Y. 


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BY  CONSTANCE  F.  WOOLSON. 


HORACE  CHASE.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
JUPITER  LIGHTS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25, 
EAST  ANGELS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
ANNE.     Illustrated.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
FOR  THE  MAJOR.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
CASTLE  NOWHERE.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
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There  is  a  certain  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolson's  writing 
which  invests  all  her  characters  with  lovable  qualities. — Jewish  Advo- 
cate, N.  Y. 

Miss  Woolson  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of  interesting 
magazine  stories,  and  her  skill  and  power  are  perceptible  in  the  de- 
lineation of  her  heroines  uo  less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of 
local  life.  —Jewish  Messenger,  N.  Y. 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolsou  may  easily  become  the  novelist  lau- 
reate.— Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  style, 
and  conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while  her  skill  in  the  development 
of  a  story  is  very  remarkable. — London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of  the  orthodox 
novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly-loaded  vein  which,  so  far,  is  all 
her  own ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sen- 
sation, and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  onr  pleasant 
task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
her  in  very  pleasant  places;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within  herself  the 
wealth  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so  freely  into  all 
she  writes.  Such  books  as  hers  do  much  to  elevate  the  moral  tone  of 
the  day— a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the  time.— Whitehall 
Review,  London. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BY  MAKY  E.  WILKINS. 


PEMBROKE.     A  Novel.      Illustrated.     16mo,  Cloth, 
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JANE  FIELD.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     16rao,  Cloth, 

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We  have  long  admired  Miss  Wilkins  as  one  of  the  most  pow- 
erful, original,  and  profound  writers  of  America ;  but  we  are 
bound  to  say  that  "Pembroke"  is  entitled  to  a  higher  distinc- 
tion than  the  critics  have  awarded  to  Miss  Wilkins's  earlier 
productions.  As  a  picture  of  New  England  life  and  character, 
as  a  story  of  such  surpassing  interest  that  he  who  begins  is 
compelled  to  finish  it,  as  a  work  of  art  without  a  fault  or  a  de- 
ficiency, we  cannot  see  how  it  could  possibly  be  improved. — N. 
Y.  Sun. 

The  simplicity,  purity,  and  quaintness  of  these  stories  set 
them  apart  in  a  niche  of  distinction  where  they  have  no  rivals. 
— Literary  World,  Boston. 

Nowhere  are  there  to  be  found  such  faithful,  delicately  drawn, 
sympathetic,  tenderly  humorous  pictures. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  ac- 
quaintance and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet 
human  interest  she  feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in 
the  simple,  common,  homely  people  she  draws. — Springfield 
Republican. 

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BY  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 


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A  BOY'S  TOWN.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
CRITICISM  AND   FICTION.     With   Portrait.     16mo,  Cloth, 

$1  00. 
MODERN   ITALIAN   POETS.     With  Portraits.     12mo,  Half 

Cloth,  $2  00. 

THE  MOUSE-TRAP,  AND  OTHER  FARCES.  Illustrated.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $1  00. 

FARCES:  A  LIKELY  STORY— THE  MOUSE-TRAP— FIVE  O'CLOCK 
TEA — EVENING  DRESS — THE  UNEXPECTED  GUESTS — A  LETTER 
OF  INTRODUCTION  —  THE  ALBANY  DEPOT  —  THE  GARROTERS. 
Illustrated.  32mo,  Cloth,  50  cents  each. 

A  LITTLE  SWISS  SOJOURN.    HIM.     32mo,  Cloth,  50  cents. 
MY  YEAR  IN  A  LOG  CABIN.    Ill'd.    32mo,  Cloth,  50  cents. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

S£-  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by 
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or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


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